
Class 







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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



BEAUTIFUL STOEIES 

i\\ FROM SHAKESPEARE 




A HOME STUDY COURSE 



BEING A CHOICE COLLECTION FROM THE WORLD'S 
GREATEST CLASSIC WRITER 

WM. SHAKESPEARE 



RETOLD BY 

E. NESBIT 
BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED 

WITH MANY 

NEW COLOE PLATES AND FINE PEN DRAWINGS 

BY 

MAX BIHN 



Edited and arranged by 
E. T. ROE, LL.B. 



HERTEL, JENKINS & CO 

PUBLISHERS AND BOOKSELLERS 

CHICAGO- 










LIBRARY of CONGRESS) 

Two Copies Receivea 

NOV 20 190? 

Copyright Entry 

CLASS/V XXc, Ni 

(41 -i~74 

COPY BJ 



COPYRIGHT 1907 
BY 

Hertel, Jenkins & Co. 



Sh n v fl? nn f iri''ni 





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"It may be said of Shakespeaie/that from his works may be col- 
lected a system of civil and economical prudence. He lias been imi- 
tated by all succeeding writers; and it may be doubted whether from 
all his successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules 
of practical prudence can be collected than he alone has given to his 
country." — Dr. Samuel Johnson. 




VS 




PREFACE 

The writings of Shakespeare have been justly termed 
" the richest, the purest, the fairest, that genius uninspired 
ever penned." 

Shakespeare instructed by delighting. His plays alone 
(leaving mere science out of the question), contain more 
actual wisdom than the whole body of English learning. 
He is the teacher of all good — pity, generosity, true cour- 
age, love. His bright wit is cut out " into little stars." 
His solid masses of knowledge are meted out in morsels and 
proverbs, and thus distributed, there is scarcely a corner of 
the English-speaking world to-day which he does not illumi- 
nate, or a cottage which he does not enrich. His bounty is 
like the sea, which, though often unacknowledged, is every- 
where felt. As his friend, Ben Jonson, wrote of him, 
" He was not of an age but for all time." He ever kept 
the highroad of human life whereon all travel. He did not 
pick out by-paths of feeling and sentiment. In his ere- 








ations we have no moral highwaymen, sentimental thieves, 
interesting villains, and amiable, elegant adventuresses — 
no delicate entanglements of situation, in which the gross- 
Aj est images are presented to the mind disguised under the 
superficial attraction of style and sentiment. He flattered 
no bad passion, disguised no vice in the garb of virtue, 
trifled with no just and generous principle. While caus- 
ing us to laugh at folly, and shudder at crime, he still pre- 
serves our love for our fellow-beings, and our reverence 
for ourselves. 

Shakespeare was familiar with all beautiful forms and 
images, with all that is sweet or majestic in the simple 
aspects of nature, of that indestructible love of flowers and 
fragrance, and dews, and clear waters — and soft airs and 
sounds, and bright skies and woodland solitudes, and moon- 
light bowers, which are the material elements of poetry — 
and with that fine sense of their indefinable relation to men- 
tal emotion, which is its essence and vivifying soul — and 
which, in the midst of his most busy and tragical scenes, 
falls like gleams of sunshine on rocks and ruins — con- 
trasting with all that is rugged or repulsive, and remind- 
ing us of the existence of purer and brighter elements. 



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-~ BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE -S- 





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These things considered, what wonder is it that the 
works of Shakespeare, next to the Bible, are the most 
highly esteemed of all the classics of English literature. 
" So extensively have the characters of Shakespeare been 
drawn upon by artists, poets, and writers of fiction," says 
an American author,; — " So interwoven are these charac- 
ters in the great body of English literature, that to be 
ignorant of the plot of these dramas is often a cause of 
embarrassment." 

But Shakespeare wrote for grown-up people, for men and 
women, and in words that little folks cannot understand. 

Hence this volume. To reproduce the entertaining 
stories contained in the plays of Shakespeare, in a form so 
simple that children can understand and enjoy them, was 
the object had in view by the author of these Beautiful 
Stories from Shakespeare. 

And that the youngest readers may not stumble in pro- 
nouncing any unfamiliar names to be met with in the 
stories, the editor has prepared and included in the volume 
a Pronouncing Vocabulary of Difficult Names. To which 
is added a collection of Shakespearean Quotations, classi- 
fied in alphabetical order, illustrative of the wisdom and 
genius of the world's greatest dramatist. E. T. R. 





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A BRIEF LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 

In the register of baptisms of the parish church of Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon, a market town in Warwickshire, England, 
appears, under date of April 26, 1564, the entry of the 
baptism of William, the son of John Shakspeare. The 
entry is in Latin — " Gulielmus Alius Johannis Shakspeare." 

The date of William Shakespeare's birth has usually been 
taken as three days before his baptism, but there is certainly 
no evidence of this fact. 

The family name was variously spelled, the dramatist 
himself not always spelling it in the same way. While in 
the baptismal record the name is spelled " Shakspeare," in 
several authentic autographs of the dramatist it reads 
'• Shakspere," and in the first edition of his works it is printed 
" Shakespeare." 

Halliwell tells us, that there are not less than thirty-four 
ways in which the various members of the Shakespeare 
family wrote the name, and in the council-book of the cor- 






HH 






poration of Stratford, where it is introduced one hundred 
and sixty-six times during the period that the dramatist's 
father was a member of the municipal body, there are four- 
teen different spellings. The modern " Shakespeare " is not 
among them. 

Shakespeare's father, while an alderman at Stratford, 
appears to have been unable to write his name, but as at that 
time nine men out of ten were content to make their mark 
for a signature, the fact is not specially to his discredit. 

The traditions and other sources of information about the 
occupation of Shakespeare's father differ. He is described 
as a butcher, a woolstapler, and a glover, and it is not im- 
possible that he may have been all of these simultaneously 
or at different times, or that if he could not properly be 
called any one of them, the nature of his occupation was 
such as to make it easy to understand how the various tra- 
ditions sprang up. He was a landed proprietor and culti- 
vator of his own land even before his marriage, and he re- 
ceived with his wife, who was Mary Arden, daughter of a 
country gentleman, the estate of Asbies, 56 acres in extent. 
William was the third child. The two older than he were 
daughters, and both probably died in infancy. After him 

8 






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was born three sons and a daughter. For ten or twelve 
years at least, after Shakespeare's birth his father continued 
to be in easy circumstances. In the year 1568 he was the 
high bailiff or chief magistrate of Stratford, and for many 
years afterwards he held the position of alderman as he had 
done for three years before. To the completion of his tenth 
year, therefore, it is natural to suppose that William Shake- 
speare would get the best education that Stratford could af- 
ford. The free school of the town was open to all boys, 
and like all the grammar-schools of that time, was under 
the direction of men who, as graduates of the universities, 
were qualified to diffuse that sound scholarship which was 
once the boast of England. There is no record of Shake- 
speare's having been at this school, but there can be no ra- 
tional doubt that he was educated there. His father could 
not have procured for him a better education anywhere. To 
those who have studied Shakespeare's works without being 
influenced by the old traditional theory that he had received 
a very narrow education, they abound with evidences that 
he must have been solidly grounded in the learning, properly 
so called, was taught in the grammar schools. 

There are local associations connected with Stratford 





v§53 



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which could not be without their influence in the formation 
of young Shakespeare's mind. Within the range of such 
a boy's curiosity were the fine old historic towns of War- 
wick and Coventry, the sumptuous palace of Kenilworth, the 
grand monastic remains of Evesham. His own Avon 
abounded with spots of singular beauty, quiet hamlets, soli- 
tary woods. Nor was Stratford shut out from the general 
world, as many country towns are. It was a great high- 
way, and dealers with every variety of merchandise resorted 
to its markets. The eyes of the poet dramatist must al- 
ways have been open for observation. But nothing is 
known positively of Shakespeare from his birth to his mar- 
riage to Anne Hathaway in 1582, and from that date noth- 
ing but the birth of three children until we find him an ac- 
tor in London about 1589. 

How long acting continued to be Shakespeare's sole pro- 
fession we have no means of knowing, but it is in the high- 
est degree probable that very soon after arriving in Lon- 
don he began that work of adaptation by which he is known 
to have begun his literary career. To improve and alter 
older plays not up to the standard that was required at the 
time was a common practice even among the best dramatists 

10 







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of the day, and Shakespeare's abilities would speedily mark 
him out as eminently fitted for this kind of work. When 
the alterations in plays originally composed by other writ- 
ers became very extensive, the work of adaptation would be- 
come in reality a work of creation. And this is exactly 
what we have examples of in a few of Shakespeare's early 
works, which are known to have been founded on older 
plays. 

It is unnecessary here to extol the published works of the 
world's greatest dramatist. Criticism has been exhausted 
upon them, and the finest minds of England, Germany, and 
America have devoted their powers to an elucidation of their 
worth. 

Shakespeare died at Stratford on the 23d of April, 1616. 
His father had died before him, in 1602, and his mother in 
1608. His wife survived him till August, 1623. His son 
Hamnet died in 1596 at the age of eleven years. His two 
daughters survived him, the eldest of whom, Susanna, had, 
in 1607, married a physician of Stratford, Dr. Hall. The 
only issue of this marriage, a daughter named Elizabeth, 
born in 1608, married first Thomas Nasbe, and afterwards 
Sir John Barnard, but left no children by either marriage. 

11 








Shakespeare's younger daughter, Judith, on the 10th of 
February, 1616, married a Stratford gentleman named 
Thomas Quincy, by whom she had three sons, all of whom 
died, however, without issue. There are thus no direct de- 
scendants of Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare's fellow-actors, fellow-dramatists, and those 
who knew him in other ways, agree in expressing not only 
admiration of his genius, but their respect and love for the 
man. Ben Jonson said, " I love the man, and do honor 
his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was 
indeed honest, and of an open and free nature." He was 
buried on the second day after his death, on the north side 
of the chancel of Stratford church. Over his grave there 
is a flat stone with this inscription, said to have been written 
by himself: 

Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare 
To digg the dust encloased heare : 
Blest be y e man yt spares these stones, 
And curst be he yt moves my bones. 




12 





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CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Preface 3 

A Brief Life of Shakespeare 7 

A Midsummer Night's Dream 19 

The Tempest . . 33 

As You Like It 44 

The Winter's Tale 54 

King Lear 67 

Twelfth Night 74 

Much Ado About Nothing 86 

Romeo and Juliet 105 

Pericles 119 

Hamlet .' 129 

Cymbeline 141 

Macbeth 153 

The Comedy of Errors 168 

The Merchant of Venice 183 

Timon of Athens 194 

13 






PAGE 

Othello 211 

The Taming of the Shrew 228 

Measure for Measure 241 

Two Gentlemen of Verona 255 

All's Well that Ends Well 272 

Pronouncing Vocabulary of Names 286 

Quotations from Shakespeare 288 




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ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 

Titania : The Queen of the Fairies 20 

The Quarrel 22 

Helena in the Wood 25 

Titania Placed Under a Spell 30 

Titania Awakes 31 

Prince Ferdinand in the Sea . . . . . .36 

Prince Ferdinand Sees Miranda 39 

Playing Chess 42 

Rosalind and Celia . . 44 

Rosalind Gives Orlando a Chain 47 

Ganymede Faints 51 

Left on the Sea-Coast 54 

The King Would Not Look . . . . . . .57 

Leontes Receiving Florizel and Perdita ... 60 

Florizel and Perdita Talking ...... 62 

Hermione 65 

Cordelia and the King of France 67 

goneril and regan 69 

Cordelia in Prison 73 

Viola and the Captain ........ 74 

Viola as " Cesario " Meets Olivia 76 

" You Too Have Been in Love " 78 

15 







PAGE 

Claudia and Hero 86 

Hero and Ursula 90 

Benedick 94 

Friar Francis 101 

Romeo and Tybalt Fight . . . . . . .105 

Romeo Discovers Juliet 108 

Marriage of Romeo and Juliet . . . . . .111 

The Nurse Thinks Juliet Dead 115 

Romeo Entering the Tomb 117 

Pericles Wins in the Tournament 122 

Pericles and Marina 127 

The King's Ghost Appears 131 

Polonius Killed by Hamlet 135 

Drowning of Ophelia 137 

Iachimo and Imogen 141 

Iachimo in the Trunk 145 

Imogen Stupefied 150 

Imogen and Leonatus 151 

The Three Witches 153 

From " Macbeth " 154 

Lady Macbeth . 157 

King and Queen Macbeth 159 

Macbeth and Macduff Fight 163 

Antipholus and Dromio 170 

luciana and antipholus of syracuse . . . . 175 
The Goldsmith and Antipholus of Syracuse . . 178 

^Emilia 181 

16 






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PAGE 

The Prince of Morocco 187 

Antonio Signs the Bond 188 

Jessica Leaving Home 191 

Bassanio Parts with the Ring 192 

Poet Reading to Timon 194 

Painter Showing Timon a Picture 197 

" Nothing but an Empty Box " 200 

Timon Grows Sullen 204 

Othello Telling Desdemona His Adventures . .211 

Othello 213 

The Drink of Wine 218 

Cassio Gives the Handkerchief 222 

Desdemona Weeping 225 

The Music Master 229 

Katharine Boxes the Servant's Ears .... 232 
Petruchio Finds Fault with the Supper . . . 235 

The Duke in the Friar's Dress 244 

Isabella Pleads with Angelo 247 

" Your Friar is Now Your Prince " 253 

Valentine Writes a Letter for Silvia . . . 258 

Silvia Reading the Letter 259 

The Serenade 263 

One of the Outlaws 267 

Helena and Bertram 272 

Helena and the King 276 

Reading Bertram's Letter 281 

Helena and the W t idow 284 

17 






WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE - - 
TITANIA AND THE CLOWN - 
FERDINAND AND MIRANDA - - 
PRINCE FLORIZEL AND PERDITA 



Page 

Front- spiece 
- - 19 

- - 33 

- - 54 



ROMEO AND JULIET 105 

IMOGEN - - 141 

CHOOSING THE CASKET - - - - 183 
PETRUCHIO AND KATHERINE - - - 228 







TITANIA AND THE CLOWN 





T T ERMIA and Lysander were lovers ; but Her- 

-*" -*■ mia's father wished her to marry another man, 
named Demetrius. 

Now, in Athens, where they lived, there was a 
wicked law, by which any girl who refused to marry 
according to her father's wishes, might be put to 
death. Hermia's father was so angry with her for 
refusing to do as he wished, that he actually brought 
her before the Duke of Athens to ask that she might 
be killed, if she still refused to obey him. The Duke 
gave her four days to think about it, and, at the end 
of that time, if she still refused to marry Demetrius, 
she would have to die. 

Lysander of course was nearly mad with grief, 
and the best thing to do seemed to him for Hermia 
to run away to his aunt's house at a place beyond the 
reach of that cruel law; and there he would come 

19 




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marry her. 
But before 
she started, 
she told her 
friend, Hel- 
ena, what she 
was going to 
do. 

Helena had 
been Deme- 
trius' sweet- 
heart long be- 
fore his mar- 
riage with 
Hermia had 
been thought 
of, and being 
very silly, like 
all jealous people, she could not see that it was 
not poor Hermia's fault that Demetrius wished to 
marry her instead of his own lady, Helena. She 
knew that if she told Demetrius that Hermia was 

20 




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going, as she was, to the wood outside Athens, he 
would follow her, "and I can follow him, and at 
least I shall see him," she said to herself. So she 
went to him, and betrayed her friend's secret. 

Now this wood where Lysander was to meet Her- 
mia, and where the other two had decided to follow 
them, was full of fairies, as most woods are, if one 
only had the eyes to see them, and in this wood on 
this night were the King and Queen of the fairies, 
Oberon and Titania. Now fairies are very wise 
people, but now and then they can be quite as foolish 
as mortal folk. Oberon and Titania, who might 
have been as happy as the days were long, had 
thrown away all their joy in a foolish quarrel. They 
never met without saying disagreeable things to 
each other, and scolded each other so dreadfully that 
all their little fairy followers, for fear, would creep 
into acorn cups and hide them there. 

So, instead of keeping one happy Court and danc- 
ing all night through in the moonlight, as is fairies' 
use, the King with his attendants wandered through 
one part of the wood, while the Queen with hers kept 
state in another. And the cause of all this trouble 



21 





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was a little Indian boy whom Titania had taken to 
be one of her followers. Oberon wanted the child to 
follow him and be one of his fairy knights ; but the 
Queen would not give him up. 

On this night, in a mossy moonlit glade, the King 
and Queen of the fairies met. 

"Ill met by 
moonlight, proud 
Titania," said the 
King. 

"What! jeal- 
ous, Oberon?" 
answered the 
Queen. "Y o u 
. spoil everything 
with your quar- 
reling. Come, 
fairies, let us 
leave him. I am not friends with him now." 

"It rests with you to make up the quarrel," said 
the King. 

"Give me that little Indian boy, and I will again 
be your humble servant and suitor." 

22 




-.rmriiuiiijiL 

The Quarrel. P?^ 




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"Set your mind at rest," said the Queen. "Your 
whole fairy kingdom buys not that boy from me. 
Come, fairies." 

And she and her train rode off down the moon- 
beams. 

"Well, go your ways," said Oberon. "But I'll 
be even with you before you leave this wood." 

Then Oberon called his favorite fairy, Puck. 
Puck was the spirit of mischief. He used to slip 
into the dairies and take the cream away, and get 
into the churn so that the butter would not come, 
and turn the beer sour, and lead people out of their 
way on dark nights and then laugh at them, and 
tumble people's stools from under them when they 
were going to sit down, and upset their hot ale over 
their chins when they were going to drink. 

"Now," said Oberon to this little sprite, "fetch me 
the flower called Love-in-idleness. The juice of 
that little purple flower laid on the eyes of those who 
sleep will make them, when they wake, to love the 
first thing they see. I will put some of the juice 
of that flower on my Titania's eyes, and when she 
wakes she will love the first thing she sees, were it 

23 







lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, or meddling monkey, or 
a busy ape." 

While Puck was gone, Demetrius passed through 
4<| the glade followed by poor Helena, and still she told 
him how she loved him and reminded him of all 
his promises, and still he told her that he did not and 
could not love her, and that his promises were noth- 
ing. Oberon was sorry for poor Helena, and when 
Puck returned with the flower, he bade him follow 
Demetrius and put some of the juice on his eyes, so 
that he might love Helena when he woke and looked 
on her, as much as she loved him. So Puck set 
off, and wandering through the wood found, not 
Demetrius, but Lysander, on whose eyes he put the 
juice; but when Lysander woke, he saw not his own 
Hermia, but Helena, who was walking through the 
wood looking for the cruel Demetrius; and directly 
he saw her he loved her and left his own lady, under 
the spell of the purple flower. 

When Hermia woke she found Lysander gone, 
and wandered about the wood trying to find him. 
Puck went back and told Oberon what he had done, 
and Oberon soon found that he had made a mistake, 

24 




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m^sam 





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Helena in the Wood. 



and set about looking for Demetrius, and having 
found him, put some of the juice on his eyes. And 
the first thing Demetrius saw when he woke was also 



VS 




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Helena. So now Demetrius and Lysander were 
both following her through the wood, and it was 
Hermia's turn to follow her lover as Helena had 
done before. The end of it was that Helena and 
Hermia began to quarrel, and Demetrius and Ly- 
sander went off to fight. Oberon was very sorry to 
see his kind scheme to help these lovers turn out so 
badly. So he said to Puck — 

"These two young men are going to fight. You 
must overhang the night with drooping fog, and 
lead them so astray, that one will never find the 
other. When they are tired out, they will fall 
asleep. Then drop this other herb on Lysander's 
eyes. That will give him his old sight and his old 
love. Then each man will have the lady who loves 
him, and they will all think that this has been only 
a Midsummer Night's Dream. Then when this is 
done, all will be well with them." 

So Puck went and did as he was told, and when 
the two had fallen asleep without meeting each other, 
Puck poured the juice on Lysander's eyes, and 
said : — 




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" When thou wakest, 
Thou takest 
True delight 
In the sight 

Of thy former lady's eye: 
Jack shall have Jill ; 
Nought shall go ill." 

Meanwhile Oberon found Titania asleep on a 

bank where grew wild thyme, oxlips, and violets, 

and woodbine, musk-roses and eglantine. There 

Titania always slept a part of the night, wrapped 

in the enameled skin of a snake. Oberon stooped 

over her and laid the juice on her eyes, saying: — 

" What thou seest when thou wake, 
Do it for thy true love take." 

Now, it happened that when Titania woke the 
first thing she saw was a stupid clown, one of a party 
of players who had come out into the wood to re- 
hearse their play. This clown had met with Puck, 
who had clapped an ass's head on his shoulders so 
that it looked as if it grew there. Directly Titania 
woke and saw this dreadful monster, she said, 
"What angel is this? Are you as wise as you are 
beautiful?" 

27 








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"If I am wise enough to find my way out of this 
wood, that's enough for me," said the foolish clown. 

"Do not desire to go out of the wood," said Ti- 
tania. The spell of the love- juice was on her, and 
to her the clown seemed the most beautiful and de- 
lightful creature on all the earth. "I love you," 
she went on. "Come with me, and I will give you 
fairies to attend on you." 

So she called four fairies, whose names were 
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed. 

"You must attend this gentleman," said the 
Queen. "Feed him with apricots and dewberries, 
purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries. Steal 
honey-bags for him from the humble-bees, and with 
the wings of painted butterflies fan the moonbeams 
from his sleeping eyes." 

"I will," said one of the fairies, and all the others 
said, "I will." 

"Now, sit down with me," said the Queen to the 
clown, "and let me stroke your dear cheeks, and stick 
musk-roses in your smooth, sleek head, and kiss your 
fair large ears, my gentle joy." 

"Where's Peaseblossom?" asked the clown with 






es 



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the ass's head. He did not care much about the 
Queen's affection, but he was very proud of having 
fairies to wait on him. "Ready," said Peaseblos- 
som. 

"Scratch my head, Peaseblossom," said the clown. 
"Where's Cobweb?" "Ready," said Cobweb. 

"Kill me," said the clown, "the red bumble-bee on 
the top of the thistle yonder, and bring me the honey- 
bag. Where's Mustardseed?" 

"Ready," said Mustardseed. 

"Oh, I want nothing," said the clown. "Only just 
help Cobweb to scratch. I must go to the barber's, 
for me thinks I am marvelous hairy about the face." 

"Would you like anything to eat?" said the fairy 
Queen. 

"I should like some good dry oats," said the clown 
— for his donkey's head made him desire donkey's 
food — "and some hay to follow." 

"Shall some of my fairies fetch you new nuts 
from the squirrel's house?" asked the Queen. 

"I'd rather have a handful or two of good dried 
peas," said the clown. "But please don't let any of 
your people disturb me ; I am going to sleep." 

29 





KiS^S^ 




Then said the Queen, "And I will wind thee in my 



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arms. 



And so when Oberon came along he found his 
beautiful Queen lavishing kisses and endearments 
on a clown with a donkey's head. 



^rn^w^x 




Titania Placed undee a Spell. 

And before he released her from the enchant- 
ment, he persuaded her to give him the little Indian 
boy he so much desired to have. Then he took pity 
on her, and threw some juice of the disenchanting 

30 






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ri 



flower on her pretty eyes; and then in a moment 
she saw plainly the donkey-headed clown she had 
been loving, and knew how foolish she had been. 

Oberon took off the ass's head from the clown, 
and left him to finish his sleep with his own silly head 
lying on the thyme and violets. 

Thus all , _., 

was made 
plain and 
straight 
again. Ob- 
eron and Ti- 
tania loved 
each other 
more than 
ever. De- 
metrius 
thought of no one but Helena, and Helena had 
never had any thought of anyone but Deme- 
trius. 

As for Hermia and Lysander, they were as lov- 
ing a couple as you could meet in a day's march, 
even through a fairy wood. 




Titania Awakes. 





So the four mortal lovers went back to Athens 
and were married; and the fairy King and Queen 
live happily together in that very wood at this very 
day. 




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32 





FERDINAND AND MIRANDA 



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P>ROSPERO, the Duke of Milan, was a learned 
"■- and studious man, who lived among his books, 
leaving the management of his dukedom to his 
brother Antonio, in whom indeed he had complete 
trust. But that trust was ill-rewarded, for Antonio 
wanted to wear the duke's crown himself, and, to 
gain his ends, would have killed his brother but for 
the love the people bore him. However, with the 
help of Prospero's great enemy, Alonso, King of 
Naples, he managed to get into his hands the duke- 
dom with all its honor, power, and riches. For 
they took Prospero to sea, and when they were far 
away from land, forced him into a little boat with 

33 






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no tackle, mast, or sail. In their cruelty and hatred 
they put his little daughter, Miranda (not yet three 
years old) , into the boat with him, and sailed away, 
TJ leaving them to their fate. 

But one among the courtiers with Antonio was 
true to his rightful master, Prospero. To save the 
duke from his enemies was impossible, but much 
could be done to remind him of a subject's love. So 
this worthy lord, whose name was Gonzalo, secretly 
placed in the boat some fresh water, provisions, and 
clothes, and what Prospero valued most of all, some 
of his precious books. 

The boat was cast on an island, and Prospero and 
his little one landed in safety. Now this island was 
enchanted, and for years had lain under the spell of 
a fell witch, Sycorax, who had imprisoned in the 
trunks of trees all the good spirits she found there. 
She died shortly before Prospero was cast on those 
shores, but the spirits, of whom Ariel was the chief, 
still remained in their prisons. 

Prospero was a great magician, for he had de- 
voted himself almost entirely to the study of magic 
during the years in which he allowed his brother to 

34 






m^^m> 




> > 



V 



manage the affairs of Milan. By his art he set free 
the imprisoned spirits, yet kept them obedient to his 
will, and they were more truly his subjects than his 
people in Milan had been. For he treated them 
kindly as long as they did his bidding, and he exer- 
cised his power over them wisely and well. One 
creature alone he found it necessary to treat with 
harshness: this was Caliban, the son of the wicked 
old witch, a hideous, deformed monster, horrible to 
look on, and vicious and brutal in all his habits. 

When Miranda was grown up into a maiden, 
sweet and fair to see, it chanced that Antonio and 
Alonso, with Sebastian, his brother, and Ferdinand, 
his son, were at sea together with old Gonzalo, and 
their ship came near Prospero's island. Prospero, 
knowing they were there, raised by his art a great 
storm, so that even the sailors on board gave them- 
selves up for lost; and first among them all Prince 
Ferdinand leaped into the sea, and, as his father 
thought in his grief, was drowned. But Ariel 
brought him safe ashore ; and all the rest of the crew, 
although they were washed overboard, were landed 
unhurt in different parts of the island, and the good 

35 






£» 



£S? 




> > 



ship herself, which they all thought had been 
wrecked, lay at anchor in the harbor whither Ariel 
had brought her. Such wonders could Prospero 
and his spirits perform. 

While yet the tempest was raging, Prospero 
showed his daughter the brave ship laboring in the 

trough of the 

sea, and told 

her that it was 

filled with liv- 

ing human 

beings like 

themselves. 

She, in pity 

of their lives, 

prayed h i m 

who had 

raised this storm to quell it. Then her father bade 

her to have no fear, for he intended to save every 

one of them. 

Then, for the first time, he told her the story of 
his life and hers, and that he had caused this storm to 
rise in order that his enemies, Antonio and Alonso, 

36 




Prince Ferdinand in the Sea. 






SE 



ri 



\ \ 



who were on board, might be delivered into his hands. 

When he had made an end of his story he charmed 
her into sleep, for Ariel was at hand, and he had 
work for him to do. Ariel, who longed for his com- 
plete freedom, grumbled to be kept in drudgery, but 
on being threateningly reminded of all the suffer- 
ings he had undergone when Sycorax ruled in the 
land, and of the debt of gratitude he owed to the 
master who had made those sufferings to end, he 
ceased to complain, and promised faithfully to do 
whatever Prospero might command. 

"Do so," said Prospero, "and in two days I will 
discharge thee." 

Then he bade Ariel take the form of a water 
nymph and sent him in search of the young prince. 
And Ariel, invisible to Ferdinand, hovered near him, 
singing the while — 

" Come unto these yellow sands 
And then take hands: 
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd 

(The wild waves whist), 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear ! " 





s 



I 




£ s 




\ > 



And Ferdinand followed the nagic singing, as the 
song changed to a solemn air, anJ the words brought 
grief to his heart, and tears to his eyes, for thus they 
ran — 

" Full fathom five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coral made. 
Those are pearls that were his eyes, 

Nothing of him. that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell. 
Hark ! now I hear them, — ding dong bell ! " 

And so singing, Ariel led the spell-bound prince 
into the presence of Prospero and Miranda. Then, 
behold! all happened as Prospero desired. For 
Miranda, who had never, since she could first re- 
member, seen any human being save her father, 
looked on the youthful prince with reverence in her 
eyes, and love in her secret heart. 

"I might call him," she said, "a thing divine, for 
nothing natural I ever saw so noble!" 

And Ferdinand, beholding her beauty with won- 
der and delight, exclaimed — 

"Most sure the goddess on whom these airs at- 
tend!" 




s 



V33 



jK 



Nor did he attempt to hide the passion which she 
inspired in him, for scarcely had they exchanged 
half a dozen sentences, before he vowed to make 
her his queen if she were willing. But Prospero, 
though secretly delighted, pretended wrath. 

"You come 
here as a spy," 
he said to Fer- 
dinand. "I 
will manacle 
your neck and 
feet together, 
and you shall 
feed on fresh 
water mussels, 
withered roots 




Prince Ferdinand Sees Miranda. 



and husk, and have sea-water to drink. Follow." 

"No," said Ferdinand, and drew his sword. But 
on the instant Prospero charmed him so that he stood 
there like a statue, still as stone; and Miranda in 
terror prayed her father to have mercy on her lover. 
But he harshly refused her, and made Ferdinand 
follow him to his cell. There he set the Prince to 





STORIES FROM 






* N 



work, making him remove thousands of heavy logs 
of timber and pile them up; and Ferdinand pa- 
tiently obeyed, and thought his toil all too well re- 
paid by the sympathy of the sweet Miranda. 

She in very pity would have helped him in his hard 
work, but he would not let her, yet he could not 
keep from her the secret of his love, and she, hearing 
it, rejoiced and promised to be his wife. 

Then Prospero released him from his servitude, 
and glad at heart, he gave his consent to their mar- 
riage. 

"Take her," he said, "she is thine own." 

In the meantime, Antonio and Sebastian in an- 
other part of the island were plotting the murder of 
Alonso, the King of Naples, for Ferdinand being 
dead, as they thought, Sebastian would succeed to 
the throne on Alonso's death. And they would 
have carried out their wicked purpose while their 
victim was asleep, but that Ariel woke him in good 
time. 

Many tricks did Ariel play them. Once he set 
a banquet before them, and just as they were going 
to fall to, he appeared to them amid thunder and 

40 




A 






Jri 



\ \ 



u 



lightning in the form of a harpy, and immediately 
the banquet disappeared. Then Ariel upbraided 
them with their sins and vanished too. 

Prospero by his enchantments drew them all to 
the grove without his cell, where they waited, trem- 
bling and afraid, and now at last bitterly repenting 
them of their sins. 

Prospero determined to make one last use of his 
magic power, "And then," said he, "I'll break my 
staff and deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll 
drown my book." 

So he made heavenly music to sound in the air, 
and appeared to them in his proper shape as the 
Duke of Milan. Because they repented, he forgave 
them and told them the story of his life since they 
had cruelly committed him and his baby daughter 
to the mercy of wind and waves. Alonso, who 
seemed sorriest of them all for his past crimes, la- 
mented the loss of his heir. But Prospero drew 
back a curtain and showed them Ferdinand and Mi- 
randa playing at chess. Great was Alonso's joy to 
greet his loved son again, and when he heard that 
the fair maid with whom Ferdinand was playing 

41 






s 





was Prosperous daughter, and that the young folks 
had plighted their troth, he said — 

"Give me your hands, let grief and sorrow still 
embrace his heart that doth not wish you joy." 

So all ended happily. The ship was safe in the 
harbor, and next day they all set sail for Naples, 

where Ferdinand 
and Miranda 
were to be mar- 
ried. Ariel gave 
them calm seas 
and auspicious 
gales; and many 
were the rejoic- 
ings at the wed- 
ding. 

Then Prospero, 
after many years of absence, went back to his 
own dukedom, where he was welcomed with great 
joy by his faithful subjects. He practiced the 
arts of magic no more, but his life was happy, 
and not only because he had found his own again, 
but chiefly because, when his bitterest foes who had 

42 




Playing Chess. 






I 



v^ 



A 



done him deadly wrong lay at his mercy, he took no 
vengeance on them, but nobly forgave them. 

As for Ariel, Prospero made him free as air, so 
that he could wander where he would, and sing with 
a light heart his sweet song — 

" Where the bee sucks, there suck I : 
In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
There I couch when owls do cry. 
On the bat's back I do fly 
- After summer, merrily : 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 



L4 




43 






\t 



Rosalind and Celia. 



AS YOU LIKE IT 



T 



iHERE was once a wicked Duke named Fred- 
-*• erick, who took the dukedom that should have 
belonged to his brother, sending him into exile. His 



brother went into the Forest of Arden, where he 
lived the life of a bold forester, as Robin Hood did 
in Sherwood Forest in merry England. 

44 





The banished Duke's daughter, Rosalind, re- 
mained with Celia, Frederick's daughter, and the 
two loved each other more than most sisters. One 
day there was a wrestling match at Court, and 
Rosalind and Celia went to see it. Charles, a cele- 
brated wrestler, was there, who had killed many men 
in contests of this kind. Orlando, the young man 
he was to wrestle with, was so slender and youth- 
ful, that Rosalind and Celia thought he would surely 
be killed, as others had been; so they spoke to him, 
and asked him not to attempt so dangerous an ad- 

' 'r^ j venture; but the only effect of their words was to 
make him wish more to come off well in the encoun- 
ter, so as to win praise from such sweet ladies. 

Orlando, like Rosalind's father, was being kept 
out of his inheritance by his brother, and was so sad 
at his brother's unkindness that, until he saw Rosa- 
lind, he did not care much whether he lived or died. 

\jf>& But now the sight of the fair Rosalind gave him 
strength and courage, so that he did marvelously, 
and at last, threw Charles to such a tune, that the 
wrestler had to be carried off the ground. Duke 
Frederick was pleased with his courage, and asked 
his name. 




i m 




> > 



tt 



4 'My name is Orlando, and I am the youngest son 
of Sir Rowland de Boys," said the young man. 

Now Sir Rowland de Boys, when he was alive, 
had been a good friend to the banished Duke, so that 
Frederick heard with regret whose son Orlando was, 
and would not befriend him. But Rosalind was de- 
lighted to hear that this handsome young stranger 
was the son of her father's old friend, and as they 
were going away, she turned back more than once 
to say another kind word to the brave young 
man. 

"Gentleman," she said, giving him a chain from 
her neck, "wear this for me. I could give more, 
but that my hand lacks means." 

Rosalind and Celia, when they were alone, began 
to talk about the handsome wrestler, and Rosalind 
confessed that she loved him at first sight. 

"Come, come," said Celia, "wrestle with tlry af- 
fections." 

"Oh," answered Rosalind, "they take the part of 
a better wrestler than myself. Look, here comes 
the Duke." 

"With his eyes full of anger," said Celia. 

46 






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^ > 



y 



"You must leave the Court at once," he said to 
Rosalind. "Why?" she asked. 

"Never mind why," answered the Duke, "y° u are 
banished. If within ten days you are found within 
twenty miles of my Court, you die." 




Rosalind Gives Orlando a Chain. 

So Rosalind set out to seek her father, the ban- 
ished Duke, in the Forest of Arden. Celia loved 
her too much to let her go alone, and as it was rather 
a dangerous journey, Rosalind, being the taller, 
dressed up as a young countryman, and her cousin 
as a country girl, and Rosalind said that she would 

47 





^^^» 






be called Ganymede, and Celia, Aliena. They were 
very tired when at last they came to the Forest of 
Arden, and as they were sitting on the grass a coun- 
tryman passed that way, and Ganymede asked him 
if he could get them food. He did so, and told 
them that a shepherd's flocks and house were to be 
sold. They bought these and settled down as shep- 
herd and shepherdess in the forest. 

In the meantime, Oliver having sought to take 
his brother Orlando's life, Orlando also wandered 
into the forest, and there met with the rightful 
Duke, and being kindly received, stayed with him, 
Now, Orlando could think of nothing but Rosalind, 
and he went about the forest carving her name on 
trees, and writing love sonnets and hanging them on 
the bushes, and there Rosalind and Celia found 
them. One day Orlando met them, but he did not 
know Rosalind in her boy's clothes, though he liked 
the pretty shepherd youth, because he fancied a like- 
ness in him to her he loved. 

"There is a foolish lover," said Rosalind, "who 
haunts these woods and hangs sonnets on the trees. 
If I could find him, I would soon cure him of his 




JhL 



y 



Orlando confessed that he was the foolish lover, 
and Rosalind said — "If you will come and see me 
every day, I will pretend to be Rosalind, and I will 
take her part, and be wayward and contrary, as is 
the way of women, till I make you ashamed of your 
folly in loving her." 

And so every day he went to her house, and took 
a pleasure in saying to her all the pretty things he 
would have said to Rosalind; and she had the fine 
and secret joy of knowing that all his love-words 
came to the right ears. Thus many days passed 
pleasantly away. 

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Gany- 
mede, he saw a man asleep on the ground, and that 
there was a lioness crouching near, waiting for the 
man who was asleep to wake : for they say that lions 
will not prey on anything that is dead or sleeping. 
Then Orlando looked at the man, and saw that it 
was his wicked brother, Oliver, who had tried to take 
his life. He fought with the lioness and killed her, 
and saved his brother's life. 

While Orlando was fighting the lioness, Oliver 
woke to see his brother, whom he had treated so 

49 




^^^» 





> > 



badly, saving him from a wild beast at the risk of 
his own life. This made him repent of his wicked- 
ness, and he begged Orlando's pardon, and from 
thenceforth they were dear brothers. The lioness 
had wounded Orlando's arm so much, that he could 
not go on to see the shepherd, so he sent his brother 
to ask Ganymede to come to him. 

Oliver went and told the whole story to Gany- 
mede and Aliena, and Aliena was so charmed with 
his manly way of confessing his faults, that she fell 
in love with him at once. But when Ganymede 
heard of the danger Orlando had been in she 
fainted; and when she came to herself, said 
truly enough, "I should have been a woman by 
right." 

Oliver went back to his brother and told him all 
this, saying, "I love Aliena so well that I- will give 
up my estates to you and marry her, and live here as 
a shepherd." 

"Let your wedding be to-morrow," said Orlando, 
"and I will ask the Duke and his friends." 

When Orlando told Ganymede how his brother 
was to be married on the morrow, he added: "Oh, 

50 






how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through 
another man's eyes." 

Then answered Rosalind, still in Ganymede's 
dress and speaking with his voice — "If you do love 




Ganymede Faints. 

Rosalind so near the heart, then when your brother 
marries Aliena, shall you marry her." 

Now the next day the Duke and his followers, and 
Orlando, and Oliver, and Aliena, were all gathered 
together for the wedding. 

Then Ganymede came in and said to the Duke, 







"If I bring in your daughter Rosalind, will you give 
her to Orlando here?" "That I would," said the 
Duke, "if I had all kingdoms to give with her." 

"And you say you will have her when I bring 
her?" she said to Orlando. "That would I," he an- 
swered, "were I king of all kingdoms." 

Then Rosalind and Celia went out, and Rosalind 
put on her pretty woman's clothes again, and after 
a while came back. 

She turned to her father — "I give myself to you, 
for I am yours." "If there be truth in sight," he 
said, "you are my daughter." 

Then she said to Orlando, "I give myself to you, 
for I am yours." "If there be truth in sight," he 
said, "you are my Rosalind." 

"I will have no father if you be not he," she said 
to the Duke, and to Orlando, "I will have no hus- 
band if you be not he." 

So Orlando and Rosalind were married, and Oli- 
ver and Celia, and they lived happy ever after, 
returning with the Duke to the kingdom. For 
Frederick had been shown by a holy hermit the 
wickedness of his ways, and so gave back the duke- 

52 








VS 



Jhi 



L 



dom of his brother, and himself went into a mon- 
astery to pray for forgiveness. 

The wedding was a merry one, in the mossy glades 
of the forest. A shepherd and shepherdess who had 
been friends with Rosalind, when she was herself 
disguised as a shepherd, were married on the same 
day, and all with such pretty feastings and merry- 
makings as could be nowhere within four walls, but 
only in the beautiful green wood. 



£3 




LWl 



'SK* 






y" Jy •" ' 




**Ss. 



<^Ls^' 



^t£^ -~~- "- 



Left on the Sea-Coast. 



THE WINTER'S TALE 



T EONTES was the King of Sicily, and his dear- 
^"-^ est friend was Polixenes, King of Bohemia. 
They had been brought up together, and only sep- 
arated when they reached man's estate and each had 
to go and rule over his kingdom. After many years, 
when each was married and had a son, Polixenes 
came to stay with Leontes in Sicily. 

Leontes was a violent-tempered man and rather 
silly, and he took it into his stupid head that his wife, 
Hermione, liked Polixenes better than she did him, 

54 



m^tmm 






PRINCE FLORIZEL AND PERDITA 



rl 



\ > 



her own husband. When once he had got this into 
his head, nothing could put it out; and he ordered 
one of his lords, Camillo, to put a poison in Pol- 
ixenes' wine. Camillo tried to dissuade him from 
this wicked action, but rinding he was not to be 
moved, pretended to consent. He then told Pol- 
ixenes what was proposed against him, and they 
fled from the Court of Sicily that night, and re- 
turned to Bohemia, where Camillo lived on as Pol- 
ixenes' friend and counselor. 

Leontes threw the Queen into prison; and her son, 
the heir to the throne, died of sorrow to see his 
mother so unjustly and cruelly treated. 

While the Queen was in prison she had a little 
baby, and a friend of hers, named Paulina, had the 
baby dressed in its best, and took it to show the 
King, thinking that the sight of his helpless little 
daughter would soften his heart towards his dear 
Queen, who had never done him any wrong, and 
who loved him a great deal more than he deserved; 
but the King would not look at the baby, and or- 
dered Paulina's husband to take it away in a ship, 
and leave it in the most desert and dreadful place 

55 



W^^^ZXl 









he could find, which Paulina's husband, very much 
against his will, was obliged to do. 

Then the poor Queen was brought up to be tried 
for treason in preferring Polixenes to her King ; but 
really she had never thought of anyone except Le- 
ontes, her husband. Leontes had sent some mes- 
sengers to ask the god, Apollo, whether he was not 
right in his cruel thoughts of the Queen. But he 
had not patience to wait till they came back, and so 
it happened that they arrived in the middle of the 
trial. The Oracle said — 

"Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Ca- 
millo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and 
the King shall live without an heir, if that which is 
lost be not found." 

Then a man came and told them that the little 
Prince was dead. The poor Queen, hearing this, 
fell down in a fit ; and then the King saw how wicked 
and wrong he had been. He ordered Paulina and 
the ladies who were with the Queen to take her away, 
and try to restore her. But Paulina came back in 
a few moments, and told the King that Hermione 
was dead. 

56 




m^sx 




s 



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U 



Now Leontes' eyes were at last opened to his 
folly. His Queen was dead, and the little daughter 
who might have been a comfort to him he had sent 
away to be the prey of wolves and kites. Life had 
nothing left for him now. He gave himself up to 
his grief, and 
passed many 
sad years i n 
prayer and re- 
morse. 

The baby 
Princess was 
left on the sea- 
coast of Bohe- 
mia, the very 
kingdom where 
Polixenes 
reigned. 
Paulina's husband never went home to tell Leontes 
where he had left the baby ; for as he was going back 
to the ship, he met a bear and was torn to pieces. 
So there was an end of him. 

But the poor deserted little baby was found by a 

57 




The King would not Look. 





m^im^ 





shepherd. She was richly dressed, and had with 
her some jewels, and a paper was pinned to her 
cloak, saying that her name was Perdita, and that 
»rl she came of noble parents. 

The shepherd, being a kind-hearted man, took 
home the little baby to his wife, and they brought 
it up as their own child. She had no more teaching 
than a shepherd's child generally has, but she inher- 
ited from her royal mother many graces and charms, 
so that she was quite different from the other maid- 
ens in the village where she lived. 

One day Prince Florizel, the son of the good King 
of Bohemia, was hunting near the shepherd's house 
and saw Perdita, now grown up to a charming wo- 
man. He made friends with the shepherd, not tell- 
ing him that he was the Prince, but saying that his 
name was Doricles, and that he was a private gentle- 
man; and then, being deeply in love with the pretty 
Perdita, he came almost daily to see her. 

The King could not understand what it was that 
took his son nearly every day from home; so he 
set people to watch him, and then found out that 
the heir of the King of Bohemia was in love with 

58 









\L 



Perdita, the pretty shepherd girl. Polixenes, wish- 
ing to see whether this was true, disguised himself, 
and went with the faithful Camillo, in disguise too, 
to the old shepherd's house. They arrived at the 
feast of sheep-shearing, and, though strangers, they 
were made very welcome. There was dancing going 
on, and a peddler was selling ribbons and laces and 
gloves, which the young men bought for their sweet- 
hearts. 

Florizel and Perdita, however, were taking no 
part in this gay scene, but sat quietly together talk- 
ing. The King noticed the charming manners and 
great beauty of Perdita, never guessing that she 
was the daughter of his old friend, Leontes. He 
said to Camillo — 

"This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran 
on the green sward. Nothing she does or seems 
but smacks of something greater than herself — too 
noble for this place." 

And Camillo answered, "In truth she is the Queen 
of curds and cream." 

But when Florizel, who did not recognize his 
father, called upon the strangers to witness his be- 

59 






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it 



trothal with the pretty shepherdess, the King made 
himself known and forbade the marriage, adding 
that if ever she saw Florizel again, he would kill her 
and her old father, the shepherd; and with that he 
left them. But Camillo remained behind, for he 




Leontes receiving Florizel and Perdita. 

was charmed with Perdita, and wished to befriend 
her. 

Camillo had long known how sorry Leontes was 
for that foolish madness of his, and he longed to go 
back to Sicily to see his old master. He now pro- 
posed that the young people should go there and 

60 







> > 



claim the protection of Leontes. So they went, and 
the shepherd went with them, taking Perdita's jew- 
els, her baby clothes, and the paper he had found 
pinned to her cloak. 

Leontes received them with great kindness. He 
was very polite to Prince Florizel, but all his looks 
were for Perdita. He saw how much she was like 
the Queen Hermione, and said again and again — 

"Such a sweet creature my daughter might have 
been, if I had not cruelly sent her from me." 

When the old shepherd heard that the King had 
lost a baby daughter, who had been left upon the 
coast of Bohemia, he felt sure that Perdita, the child 
he had reared, must be the King's daughter, and 
when he told his tale and showed the jewels and the 
paper, the King perceived that Perdita was indeed 
his long-lost child. He welcomed her with joy, and 
rewarded the good shepherd. 

Polixenes had hastened after his son to prevent his 
marriage with Perdita, but when he found that she 
was the daughter of his old friend, he was only too 
glad to give his consent. 

Yet Leontes could not be happy. He remem- 

61 







y 



bered how his fair Queen, who should have been at 
his side to share his joy in his daughter's happiness, 
was dead through his unkindness, and he could say 
nothing for a long time but — 

"Oh, thy mother! thy mother!" and ask forgive- 
ness of the King of Bohemia, and then kiss his 

daughter 
again, and 
then the 
Prince Flori- 
zel, and then 
thank the old 
shepherd for 
all his good- 
ness. 

Then Paul- 
ina, who had 
been high all these years in the King's favor, be- 
cause of her kindness to the dead Queen Hermione, 
said — "I have a statue made in the likeness of the 
dead Queen, a piece many years in doing, and per- 
formed by the rare Italian master, Giulio Romano. 
I keep it in a private house apart, and there, ever 

62 




Flobizel and Perdita Talking. 




s 






s 



vs 



ri 



y 



since you lost your Queen, I have gone twice or 
thrice a day. Will it please your Majesty to go 
and see the statue?" 

So Leontes and Polixenes, and Florizel and Per- 
dita, with Camillo and their attendants, went to 
Paulina's house where there was a heavy purple cur- 
tain screening off an alcove; and Paulina, with her 
hand on the curtain, said — 

"She was peerless when she was alive, and I do 
believe that her dead likeness excels whatever yet 
you have looked upon, or that the hand of man hath 
done. Therefore I keep it lonely, apart. But here 
it is — behold, and say, 'tis well." 

And with that she drew back the curtain and 
showed them the statue. The King gazed and 
gazed on the beautiful statue of his dead wife, but 
said nothing. 

"I like your silence," said Paulina; "it the more 
shows off your wonder. But speak, is it not like 
her?" 

"It is almost herself," said the King, "and yet, 
Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, noth- 
ing like so old as this seems." 

63 




m^tiX 





> > 



y 



"Oh, not by much," said Polixenes. 

"Ah," said Paulina, "that is the cleverness of the 
carver, who shows her to us as she would have been, 
had she lived till now." 

And still Leontes looked at the statue and could 
not take his eyes away. 

"If I had known," said Paulina, "that this poor 
image would so have stirred your grief, and love, 
I would not have shown it to you." 

But he only answered, "Do not draw the cur- 
tain." 

"No, you must not look any longer," said Pau- 
lina, "or you will think it moves." 

"Let be! let be!" said the King. "Would you 
not think it breathed?" 

"I will draw the curtain," said Paulina; "you will 
think it lives presently." 

"Ah, sweet Paulina," said Leontes, "make me to 
think so twenty years together." 

"If you can bear it," said Paulina, "I can make 
the statue move, make it come down and take you by 
the hand. Only you would think it was by wicked 
magic." 

64 




«^^SH 




S3 



ness, all these years, and would not discover herself 
to her husband, though she knew he had repented, 
because she could not quite forgive him till she 
knew what had become of her little baby. 

Now that Perdita was found, she forgave her hus- 
band everything, and it was like a new and beautiful 
marriage to them, to be together once more. 

Florizel and Perdita were married and lived long 
and happily. 

To Leontes his many years of suffering were 
well paid for in the moment when, after long grief 
and pain, he felt the arms of his true love around 
him once a^ain. 









Cordelia and the King of France. 



KING LEAR 



T/^ING LEAR was old and tired. He was 
aweaiy of the business of his kingdom, and 
wished only to end his days quietly near his three 
daughters. Two of his daughters were married to 
the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall; and the Duke 
of Burgundy and the King of France were both 
suitors for the hand of Cordelia, his youngest daugh- 
ter. 

Lear called his three daughters together, and told 
them that he proposed to divide his kingdom between 

67 






fc 



them. "But first," said he, "I should like to know 
how much you love me." 

Goneril, who was really a very wicked woman, 
and did not love her father at all, said she loved him 
more than words could say; she loved him dearer 
than eyesight, space or liberty, more than life, grace, 
health, beauty, and honor. 

"I love you as much as my sister and more," pro- 
fessed Regan, "since I care for nothing but my 
father's love." 

Lear was very much pleased with Regan's pro- 
fessions, and turned to his youngest daughter, Cor- 
delia. "Now, our joy, though last not least," he 
said, "the best part of my kingdom have I kept for 
you. What can you say?" 

"Nothing, my lord," answered Cordelia. 

"Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again," 
said the King. 

And Cordelia answered, "I love your Majesty ac- 
cording to my duty — no more, no less." 

And this she said, because she was disgusted with 
the way in which her sisters professed love, when 
really they had not even a right sense of duty to 
their old father. ™ 




^^^» 






"I am your daughter," she went on, "and you 
have brought me up and loved me, and I return 
you those duties back as are right and fit, obey you, 
love you, and most honor you." 




its 



GONERIL AND REGAN. 

Lear, who loved Cordelia best, had wished her 
to make more extravagant professions of love than 
her sisters. "Go," he said, "be for ever a stranger 
to my heart and me." 

The Earl of Kent, one of Lear's favorite court- 

69 




^^^»i 




-i- BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE -*• 



(L 




> > 



iers and captains, tried to say a word for Cordelia's 
sake, but Lear would not listen. He divided the 
kingdom between Goneril and Regan, and told them 
that he should only keep a hundred knights at arms, 
and would live with his daughters by turns. 

When the Duke of Burgundy knew that Cor- 
delia would have no share of the kingdom, he gave 
up his courtship of her. But the King of France 
was wiser, and said, "Thy dowerless daughter, King, 
is Queen of us — of ours, and our fair France." 

"Take her, take her," said the King; "for I will 
never see that face of hers again." 

So Cordelia became Queen of France, and the 
Earl of Kent, for having ventured to take her part, 
was banished from the kingdom. The King now 
went to stay with his daughter Goneril, who had got 
everything from her father that he had to give, and 
now began to grudge even the hundred knights that 
he had reserved for himself. She was harsh and 
undutiful to him, and her servants either refused 
to obey his orders or pretended that they did not hear 
them. 

Now the Earl of Kent, when he was banished, 

70 





te^ 



Jhi 



made as though he would go into another country, 
but instead he came back in the disguise of a serv- 
ingman and took service with the King. The King 
had now two friends— the Earl of Kent, whom he 
only knew as his servant, and his Fool, who was 
faithful to him. Goneril told her father plainly 
that his knights only served to fill her Court with 
riot and feasting; and so she begged him only to 
keep a few old men about him such as himself. 

"My train are men who know all parts of duty," 
said Lear. "Goneril, I will not trouble you fur- 
ther — yet I have left another daughter." 

And his horses being saddled, he set out with his 
followers for the castle of Regan. But she, who 
had formerly outdone her sister in professions of 
attachment to the King, now seemed to outdo her 
in undutiful conduct, saying that fifty knights were 
too many to wait on him, and Goneril (who had 
hurried thither to prevent Regan showing any kind- 
ness to the old King) said five were too many, since 
her servants could wait on him. 

Then when Lear saw that what they really wanted 
was to drive him away, he left them. It was a wild 

71 







and stormy night, and he wandered about the heath 
half mad with misery, and with no companion but 
the poor Fool. But presently his servant, the good 
Earl of Kent, met him, and at last persuaded him 
to lie down in a wretched little hovel. At daybreak 
the Earl of Kent removed his royal master to Dover, 
and hurried to the Court of France to tell Cordelia 
what had happened. 

Cordelia's husband gave her an army and with it 
she landed at Dover. Here she found poor King 
Lear, wandering about the fields, wearing a crown 
of nettles and weeds. They brought him back and 
fed and clothed him, and Cordelia came to him and 
kissed him. 

"You must bear with me," said Lear; "forget and 
forgive. I am old and foolish." 

And now he knew at last which of his children 
it was that had loved him best, and who was worthy 
of his love. 

Goneril and Regan joined their armies to fight 
Cordelia's army, and were successful; and Cordelia 
and her father were thrown into prison. Then Gon- 
eril's husband, the Duke of Albany, who was a good 

72 





> > 



man, and had not known how wicked his wife was, 
heard the truth of the whole story; and when Goneril 
found that her husband knew her for the wicked 
woman she was, she killed herself, having a little 
time before given a 
deadly poison to her 
sister, Regan, out of 
a spirit of jealousy. 

But they had ar- 
ranged that Cordelia 
should be hanged in 
prison, and though 
the Duke of Albany 
sent messengers a t 
once, it was too late. 
The old King came 

staggering into the tent of the Duke of Albany, 
carrying the body of his dear daughter Cordelia in 
his arms. 

And soon after, with words of love for her upon 
his lips, he fell with her still in his arms, and died. 



73 




Cordelia in Prison. 






/^VRSINO, the Duke of Illyria, was deeply in 
love with a beautiful Countess named Olivia. 
Yet was all his love in vain, for she disdained his 
suit ; and when her brother died, she sent back a mes- 
senger from the Duke, bidding him tell his master 
that for seven years she would not let the very air 
behold her face, but that, like a nun, she would 
walk veiled; and all this for the sake of a dead 
brother's love, which she would keep fresh and last- 
ing in her sad remembrance. 

74 




The Duke longed for someone to whom he could 
tell his sorrow, and repeat over and over again the 
story of his love. And chance brought him such a 
companion. For about this time a goodly ship was 
wrecked on the Illyrian coast, and among those who 
reached land in safety were the captain and a fair 
young maid, named Viola. But she was little grate- 
ful for being rescued from the perils of the sea, 
since she feared that her twin brother was drowned, 
Sebastian, as dear to her as the heart in her bosom, 
and so like her that, but for the difference in their 
manner of dress, one could hardly be told from the 
other. The captain, for her comfort, told her that 
he had seen her brother bind himself "to a strong 
mast that lived upon the sea," and that thus there 
was hope that he might be saved. 

Viola now asked in whose country she was, and 
learning that the young Duke Orsino ruled there, 
and was as noble in his nature as in his name, she de- 
cided to disguise herself in male attire, and seek 
for employment with him as a page. 

In this she succeeded, and now from day to day 
she had to listen to the story of Orsino's love. At 

75 




m 





vs 




first she sympathized very truly with him, but soon 
her sympathy grew to love. At last it occurred 
to Orsino that his hopeless love-suit might prosper 
better if he sent this pretty lad to woo Olivia for 




Viola as " Cesario " Meets Olivia. 

him. Viola unwillingly went on this errand, but 
when she came to the house, Malvolio, Olivia's stew- 
ard, a vain, officious man, sick, as his mistress told 
him, of self-love, forbade the messenger admittance. 

76 





^^^M 




ri 



Viola, however (who was now called Cesario), re- 
fused to take any denial, and vowed to have speech 
with the Countess. Olivia, hearing how her instruc- 
tions were defied and curious to see this daring 
youth, said, "We'll once more hear Orsino's em- 
bassy." 

When Viola was admitted to her presence and the 
servants had been sent away, she listened patiently 
to the reproaches which this bold messenger from the 
Duke poured upon her, and listening she fell in love 
with the supposed Cesario; and when Cesario had 
gone, Olivia longed to send some love-token after 
him. So, calling Malvolio, she bade him follow the 
boy. 

"He left this ring behind him," she said, taking 
one from her finger. "Tell him I will none of it." 

Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who 
of course knew perfectly well that she had left no 
ring behind her, saw with a woman's quickness that 
Olivia loved her. Then she went back to the Duke, 
very sad at heart for her lover, and for Olivia, and 
for herself. 

It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, 






> > 



who now sought to ease the pangs of despised love 1^ 
by listening to sweet music, while Cesario stood by 
his side. 

"Ah," said the Duke to his page that night, "y° u 
too have been in love." 

"A little," answered Viola. 




" YOU TOO HAVE' BEEN IN LOVE. " 

"What kind of woman is it?" he asked. 
"Of your complexion,", she answered. 
"What years, i' faith?" was his next question. 
To this came the pretty answer, "About your 
years, my lord." 






> > 



"Too old, by Heaven!" cried the Duke, 
still the woman take an elder than herself." 

And Viola very meekly said, "I think it well, my 
lord." 

By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to 
visit Olivia and to plead his love-suit. But she, 
thinking to dissuade him, said — 

"If some lady loved you as you love Olivia? 1 ' 

"Ah! that cannot be," said the Duke. 

"But I know," Viola went on, "what love woman 
may have for a man. My father had a daughter 
loved a man, as it might be," she added blushing, 
"perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lord- 
ship." 

"And what is her history?" he asked. 

"A blank, my lord," Viola answered. "She never 
told her love, but let concealment like a worm in the 
bud feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought, 
and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat, like 
Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was 
not this love indeed?" 

"But died thy sister of her love, my boy?" the 
Duke asked; and Viola, who had all the time been 







telling her own love for him in this pretty fashion, 
said — 

"I am all the daughters my father has and all 
the brothers — Sir, shall I go to the lady?" 

"To her in haste," said the Duke, at once forget- 
ting all about the story, "and give her this jewel." 

So Viola went, and this time poor Olivia was un- 
able to hide her love, and openly confessed it with 
such passionate truth, that Viola left her hastily, say- 
ing— 

"Nevermore will I deplore my master's tears to 

you." 

But in vowing this, Viola did not know the tender 
pity she would feel for other's suffering. So when 
Olivia, in the violence of her love, sent a messenger, 
praying Cesario to visit her once more, Cesario had 
no heart to refuse the request. 

But the favors which Olivia bestowed upon this 
mere page aroused the jealousy of Sir Andrew 
Aguecheek, a foolish, rejected lover of hers, who at 
that time was staying at her house with her merry 
old uncle Sir Toby. This same Sir Toby dearly 
loved a practical joke, and knowing Sir Andrew to 





I 



te 



rv 






be an arrant coward, lie thought that if he could 
bring off a duel between him and Cesario, there 
would be rare sport indeed. So he induced Sir An- 
drew to send a challenge, which he himself took to 
Cesario. The poor page, in great terror, said — 

"I will return again to the house, I am no fighter." 

"Back you shall not to the house," said Sir Toby, 
"unless you fight me first." 

And as he looked a very fierce old gentleman, 
Viola thought it best to await Sir Andrew's com- 
ing; and when he at last made his appearance, in a 
great fright, if the truth had been known, she trem- 
blingly drew her sword, and Sir Andrew in like fear 
followed her example. Happily for them both, at 
this moment some officers of the Court came on the 
scene, and stopped the intended duel. Viola gladly 
made off with what speed she might, while Sir Toby 
called after her — 

"A very paltry boy, and more a coward than a 
hare!" 

Now, while these things were happening, Sebas- 
tian had escaped all the dangers of the deep, and had 
landed safely in Illyria, where he determined to 

81 



y^^^« 




^^M 







> > 



make his way to the Duke's Court. On his way 
thither he passed Olivia's house just as Viola had left 
it in such a hurry, and whom should he meet but Sir 
Andrew and Sir Toby. Sir Andrew, mistaking Se- 
bastian for the cowardly Cesario, took his courage 
in both hands, and walking up to him struck him, 
saying, "There's for you." 

"Why, there's for you; and there, and there!" said 
Sebastian, hitting back a great deal harder, and 
again and again, till Sir Toby came to the rescue of 
his friend. Sebastian, however, tore himself free 
from Sir Toby's clutches, and drawing his sword 
would have fought them both, but that Olivia her- 
self, having heard of the quarrel, came running in, 
and with many reproaches sent Sir Toby and his 
friend away. Then turning to Sebastian, whom 
she too thought to be Cesario, she besought him with 
many a pretty speech to come into the house with 
her. 

Sebastian, half dazed and all delighted with her 
beauty and grace, readily consented, and that very 
day, so great was Olivia's haste, they were married 
before she had discovered that he was not Cesario, or 

82 





I 



jH 



Sebastian was quite certain whether or not he was in 
a dream. 

Meanwhile Orsino, hearing how ill Cesario sped 
*Yj with Olivia, visited her himself, taking Cesario with 
him. Olivia met them both before her door, and 
seeing, as she thought, her husband there, reproached 
him for leaving her, while to the Duke she said that 
his suit was as fat and wholesome to her as howling 
after music. 

"Still so cruel?" said Orsino. 

"Still so constant," she answered. 

Then Orsino's anger growing to cruelty, he vowed 
that, to be revenged on her, he would kill Cesario. 
whom he knew she loved. "Come, boy," he said to 
the page. 

And Viola, following him as he moved away, said, 
"I, to do you rest, a thousand deaths would die." 

A great fear took hold on Olivia, and she cried 
aloud, "Cesario, husband, stay!" 

"Her husband?" asked the Duke angrily. 

"No, my lord, not I," said Viola. 

"Call forth the holy father," cried Olivia. 

And the priest who had married Sebastian and 

83 



y 








> > 




Olivia, coming in, declared Cesario to be the bride- 
groom. 

"O thou dissembling cub!" the Duke exclaimed. 
"Farewell, and take her, but go where thou and I 
henceforth may never meet." 

At this moment Sir Andrew came up with bleed- 
ing crown, complaining that Cesario had broken his 
head, and Sir Toby's as well. 

"I never hurt you," said Viola, very positively; 
"you drew your sword on me, but I bespoke you 
fair, and hurt you not." 

Yet, for all her protesting, no one there believed 
her ; but all their thoughts were on a sudden changed 
to wonder, when Sebastian came in. 

"I am sorry, madam," he said to his wife, "I 
have hurt your kinsman. Pardon me, sweet, even 
for the vows we made each other so late ago." 

"One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!" 
cried the Duke, looking first at Viola, and then at 
Sebastian. 

"An apple cleft in two," said one who knew Se- 
bastian, "is not more twin than these two creatures. 
Which is Sebastian?" 

84 






-5- BEAUTIFUL 




*^^-^*_r^._ -ilj 



I 


5 


Ss 





> > 




"I never had a brother," said Sebastian. "I had 
a sister, whom the blind waves and surges have 
devoured." "Were you a woman," he said to Viola, 
"I should let my tears fall upon your cheek, and say, 
'Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!' " 

Then Viola, rejoicing to see her dear brother alive, 
confessed that she was indeed his sister, Viola. As 
she spoke, Orsino felt the pity that is akin to love. 

"Boy," he said, "thou hast said to me a thousand 
times thou never shouldst love woman like to me." 

"And all those sayings will I overswear," Viola 
replied, "and all those swearings keep true." 

"Give me tlry hand," Orsino cried in gladness. 
"Thou shalt be my wife, and my fancy's queen." 

Thus was the gentle Viola made happy, while 
Olivia found in Sebastian a constant lover, and a 
good husband, and he in her a true and loving wife. 







> > 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 

|"N Sicily is a town called Messina, which is the 
scene of a curious storm in a teacup that raged 
several hundred years ago. 

It began with sunshine. Don Pedro, Prince of 
Arragon, in Spain, had gained so complete a vic- 
tory over his foes that the very land whence they 
came is forgotten. Feeling happy and playful 
after the fatigues of war, Don Pedro came for a 

86 



m^^mm 



vs 




K 



holiday to Messina, and in his suite were his step- 
brother Don John and two young Italian lords, 
Benedick and Claudio. 

Benedick was a merry chatterbox, who had de- 
termined to live a bachelor. Claudio, on the other 
hand, no sooner arrived at Messina than he fell in 
love with Hero, the daughter of Leonato, Governor 
of Messina. 

One July day, a perfumer called Borachio was 
burning dried lavender in a musty room in Leonato's 
house, when the sound of conversation floated 
through the open window. 

"Give me your candid opinion of Hero," Claudio 
asked, and Borachio settled himself for comfortable 
listening. 

"Too short and brown for praise," was Benedick's 
reply; "but alter her color or height, and you spoil 
her." 

"In my eyes she is the sweetest of women," said 
Claudio. 

"Not in mine," retorted Benedick, "and I have no 
need for glasses. She is like the last day of De- 
cember compared with the first of May if you set 

87 





^^^» 




s 




> > 



her beside her cousin. Unfortunately, the Lady 
Beatrice is a fury." 

Beatrice was Leonato's niece. She amused her- 
self by saying witty and severe things about Bene- 
dick, who called her Dear Lady Disdain. She was 
wont to say that she was born under a dancing star, 
and could not therefore be dull. 

Claudio and Benedick were still talking when Don 
Pedro came up and said good-humoredly, "Well, 
gentlemen, what's the secret?" 

"I am longing," answered Benedick, "for your 
Grace to command me to tell." 

"I charge you, then, on your allegiance to tell 
me," said Don Pedro, falling in with his humor. 

"I can be as dumb as a mute," apologized Bene- 
dick to' Claudio, "but his Grace commands my 
speech." To Don Pedro he said, "Claudio is in love 
with Hero, Leonato's short daughter." 

Don Pedro was pleased, for he admired Hero 
and was fond of Claudio. When Benedick had de- 
parted, he said to Claudio, "Be steadfast in your love 
for Hero, and I will help you to win her. To-night 
her father gives a masquerade, and I will pretend I 

88 






i^^^K 



n 



am Claudio, and tell her how Claudio loves her, and 
if she be pleased, I will go to her father and ask his 
consent to your union." 

Most men like to do their own wooing, but if you 
fall in love with a Governor's only daughter, you 
are fortunate if you can trust a prince to plead for 
you. 

Claudio then was fortunate, but he was unfor- 
tunate as well, for he had an enemy who was out- 
wardly a friend. This enemy was Don Pedro's 
stepbrother Don John, who was jealous of Claudio 
because Don Pedro preferred him to Don John. 

It was to Don John that Borachio came with the 
interesting conversation which he had overheard. 

"I shall have some fun at that masquerade my- 
self," said Don John when Borachio ceased speak- 
ing. 

On the night of the masquerade, Don Pedro, 
masked and pretending he was Claudio, asked Hero 
if he might walk with her. 

They moved away together, and Don John went 
up to Claudio and said, "Signor Benedick, I be- 
lieve?"' 

89 



^^^Si 






"The same," fibbed Claudio. 

"I should be much obliged then," said Don John, 
' 'if you would use your influence with my brother to 
cure him of his love for Hero. She is beneath him 
in rank." 

"How do 
you know h e 
loves her?" in- 
quired Claudio. 
"I heard him 
swear his af- 
fection," was 
the reply, and 
Borachio 
chimed in with, 
"So did I too." 
Claudio was 
then left to 

Hero and Ursula. himself, and 

his thought was that his Prince had betrayed him. 
"Farewell, Hero," he muttered; "I was a fool to 
trust to an agent." 

Meanwhile Beatrice and Benedick (who was 

90 





»^^» 




ESP 



masked) were having a brisk exchange of opinions. 

"Did Benedick ever make you laugh?" asked she. 

"Who is Benedick?" he inquired. 

"A Prince's jester," replied Beatrice, and she 
spoke so sharply that "I would not marry her," he 
declared afterwards, "if her estate were the Garden 
of Eden." 

But the principal speaker at the masquerade was 
neither Beatrice nor Benedick. It was Don Pedro, 
who carried out his plan to the letter, and brought 
the light back to Claudio's face in a twinkling, by 
appearing before him with Leonato and Hero, and 
saying, "Claudio, when would you like to go to 
church?" 

"To-morrow," was the prompt answer. "Time 
goes on crutches till I marry Hero." 

"Give her a week, my dear son," said Leonato, and 
Claudio's heart thumped with joy. 

"And now," said the amiable Don Pedro, "we 
must find a wife for Signor Benedick. It is a task 
for Hercules." 

"I will help you," said Leonato, "if I have to sit 
up ten nights." 

91 






u 



Then Hero spoke. "I will do what I can, my 
lord, to find a good husband for Beatrice." 

Thus, with happy laughter, ended the masquerade 
which had given Claudio a lesson for nothing. 

Borachio cheered up Don John by laying a plan 
before him with which he was confident he could per- 
suade both Claudio and Don Pedro that Hero was a 
fickle girl who had two strings to her bow. Don 
John agreed to this plan of hate. 

Don Pedro, on the other hand, had devised a cun- 
ning plan of love. "If," he said to Leonato, "we 
pretend, when Beatrice is near enough to overhear 
us, that Benedick is pining for her love, she will 
pity him, see his good qualities, and love him. And 
if, when Benedick thinks we don't know he is listen- 
ing, we say how sad it is that the beautiful Beatrice 
should be in love with a heartless scoffer like Bene- 
dick, he will certainly be on his knees before her in 
a week or less." 

So one day, when Benedick was reading in a sum- 
mer-house, Claudio sat down outside it with Leonato, 
and said, "Your daughter told me something about 
a letter she wrote." 

92 






Jhi 






"Letter!" exclaimed Leonato. "She will get up 
twenty times in the night and write goodness knows 
what. But once Hero peeped, and saw the words 
'Benedick and Beatrice' on the sheet, and then Bea- 
trice tore it up." 

"Hero told me," said Claudio, "that she cried, 'O 
sweet Benedick!' " 

Benedick was touched to the core by this improb- 
able story, which he was vain enough to believe. 
"She is fair and good," he said to himself. "I must 
not seem proud. I feel that I love her. People 
will laugh, of course; but their paper bullets will 
do me no harm." 

At this moment Beatrice came to the summer- 
house, and said, "Against my will, I have come to 
tell you that dinner is read}^." 

"Fair Beatrice, I thank you," said Benedick. 

"I took no more pains to come than you take pains 
to thank me," was the rejoinder, intended to freeze 
him. 

But it did not freeze him. It warmed him. The 
meaning he squeezed out of her rude speech was 
that she was delighted to come to him. 

93 






Hero, who had undertaken the task of melting 
the heart of Beatrice, took no trouble to seek an 
occasion. She simply said to her maid Margaret 
one day, "Run into the parlor and whisper to Bea- 
trice that Ursula and I 
are talking about her 
in the orchard." 

Having said this, she 
felt as sure that Bea- 
trice would overhear 
what was meant for 
her ears as if she had 
made an appointment 
with her cousin. 

In the orchard was 
a bower, screened from 
the sun by honeysuc- 
kles, and Beatrice en- 
tered it a few minutes 
after Margaret had 
gone on her errand. 
"But are you sure," asked Ursula, who was one 
of Hero's attendants, "that Benedick loves Beatrice 
so devotedly?" 



Benedick. 







ted 



n 



> > 



"So say the Prince and my betrothed," replied 
Hero, "and they wished me to tell her, but I said, 
'No! Let Benedick get over it.' " 

"Why did you say that?" 

"Because Beatrice is unbearably proud. Her 
eyes sparkle with disdain and scorn. She is too con- 
ceited to love. I should not like to see her making 
game of poor Benedick's love. I would rather see 
Benedick waste away like a covered fire." 

"I don't agree with you," said Ursula. "I think 
your cousin is too clear-sighted not to see the merits 
of Benedick." "He is the one man in Italy, ex- 
cept Claudio," said Hero. 

The talkers then left the orchard, and Beatrice, 
excited and tender, stepped out of the summer- 
house, saying to herself, "Poor dear Benedick, be 
true to me, and your love shall tame this wild heart 
of mine." 

We now return to the plan of hate. 

The night before the day fixed for Claudio's wed- 

i 
ding, Don John entered a room in which Don Pedro 

and Claudio were conversing, and asked Claudio if 

he intended to be married to-morrow. 







it 



"You know he does!" said Don Pedro. 

"He may know differently," said Don John, 
"when he has seen what I will show him if he will 
follow me." 

They followed him into the garden ; and they saw 
a lady leaning out of Hero's window talking love to 
Borachio. 

Claudio thought the lady was Hero, and said, "I 
will shame her for it to-morrow!" Don Pedro 
thought she was Hero, too; but she was not Hero; 
she was Margaret. 

Don John chuckled noiselessly when Claudio and 
Don Pedro quitted the garden; he gave Borachio a 
purse containing a thousand ducats. 

The money made Borachio feel very gay, and 
when he was walking in the street with his friend 
Conrade, he boasted of his wealth and the giver, and 
told what he had done. 

A watchman overheard them, and thought that 
a man who had been paid a thousand ducats for 
villainy was worth taking in charge. He therefore 
arrested Borachio and Conrade, who spent the rest 
of the night in prison. 

96 




m^smii 




I 



^ 



ri 



\ > 



Before noon of the next day half the aristocrats 
in Messina were at church. Hero thought it was 
her wedding day, and she was there in her wedding 
dress, no cloud on her pretty face or in her frank 
and shining eyes. 

The priest was Friar Francis. 

Turning to Claudio, he said, "You come hither, 
my lord, to marry this lady?" "No!" contradicted 
Claudio. 

Leonato thought he was quibbling over grammar. 
"You should have said, Friar," said he, " 'You come 
to be married to her.' " 

Friar Francis turned to Hero. "Lady," he said, 
"you come hither to be married to this Count?" "I 
do," replied Hero. 

"If either of you know any impediment to this 
marriage, I charge you to utter it," said the Friar. 

"Do you know of any, Hero?" asked Claudio. 
"None," said she. 

"Know you of any, Count?" demanded the Friar. 
"I dare reply for him, 'None,' " said Leonato. 

Claudio exclaimed bitterly, "O! what will not 
men dare say! Father," he continued, "will you 

97 





^^^» 





give me your daughter?" "As freely," replied Leo 
nato, "as God gave her to me." 

"And what can I give you," asked Claudio, 
"which is worthy of this gift?" "Nothing," said 
Don Pedro, "unless you give the gift back to the 
giver." 

"Sweet Prince, you teach me," said Claudio. 
"There, Leonato, take her back." 

These brutal words were followed by others which 
flew from Claudio, Don Pedro and Don John. 

The church seemed no longer sacred. Hero took 
her own part as long as she could, then she swooned. 
All her persecutors left the church, except her 
father, who was befooled by the accusations against 
her, and cried, "Hence from her! Let her die!" 

But Friar Francis saw Hero blameless with his 
clear eyes that probed the soul. "She is innocent," 
he said; "a thousand signs have told me so." 

Hero revived under his kind gaze. Her father, 
flurried and angry, knew not what to think, and the 
Friar said, "They have left her as one dead with 
shame. Let us pretend that she is dead until the 
truth is declared, and slander turns to remorse." 

98 




f m^^m& 




i 



r\ 



d 



"The Friar advises well," said Benedick. Then 
Hero was led away into a retreat, and Beatrice and 
Benedick remained alone in the church. 

Benedick knew she had been weeping bitterly and 
long. "Surely I do believe your fair cousin is 
wronged," he said. She still wept. 

"Is it not strange," asked Benedick, gently, "that 
I love nothing in the world as well as you?" 

"It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing 
as well as you," said Beatrice, "but I do not say it. 
I am sorry for my cousin." 

"Tell me what to do for her," said Benedick. 
"Kill Claudio." 

"Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick. 
"Your refusal kills me," said Beatrice. "Farewell." 

"Enough! I will challenge him," cried Benedick. 

During this scene Borachio and Conrade were in 
prison. There they were examined by a constable 
called Dogberry. 

The watchman gave evidence to the effect that 
Borachio had said that he had received a thousand 
ducats for conspiring against Hero. 

Leonato was not present at this examination, but 
LOFC, 99 




^^ r i 




he was nevertheless now thoroughly convinced of 
Hero's innocence. He played the part of bereaved 
father very well, and when Don Pedro and Claudio 
called on him in a friendly way, he said to the Ital- 
ian, "You have slandered my child to death, and I 
challenge you to combat." 

"I cannot fight an old man," said Claudio. 

"You could kill a girl," sneered Leonato, and 
Claudio crimsoned. 

Hot words grew from hot words, and both Don 
Pedro and Claudio were feeling scorched when 
Leonato left the room and Benedick entered. 

"The old man," said Claudio, "was like to have 
snapped my nose off." 

"You are a villain!" said Benedick, shortly. 
"Fight me when and with what weapon you please, 
or I call you a coward." 

Claudio was astounded, but said, "I'll meet you. 
Nobody shall say I can't carve a calf's head." 

Benedick smiled, and as it was time for Don 
Pedro to receive officials, the Prince sat down in a 
chair of state and prepared his mind for justice. 

The door soon opened to admit Dogberry and his 
prisoners. ^ 0ft 





£S 




y 



"What offence," said Don Pedro, "are these men 
charged with?" 

Boraehio thought the moment a happy one for 
making a clean breast of it. He laid the whole 
blame on Don John, who had disappeared. "The 
lady Hero being 
dead," he said, "I de- 
sire nothing but the 
reward of a mur- 
derer." 

Claudio heard with 
anguish and deep re- 
pentance. 

Upon the re-en- 
trance of Leonato he 
said to him, "This 
slave makes clear 
your daughter's in- 
nocence. Choose your 
revenge." 

"Leonato," said Don Pedro, humbly, "I am ready 
for any penance you may impose." 

"I ask you both, then," said Leonato, "to pro- 

101 




Friar Francis. 






m^^mm 




s 




> > 



claim my daughter's innocence, and to honor her 
tomb by singing her praise before it. As for you, 
Claudio, I have this to say : my brother has a daugh- 
ter so like Hero that she might be a copy of her. 
Marry her, and my vengeful feelings die." 

"Noble sir," said Claudio, "I am yours." Clau- 
dio then went to his room and composed a sol- 
emn song. Going to the church with Don Pedro 
and his attendants, he sang it before the monument 
of Leonato's family. When he had ended he said, 
"Good night, Hero. Yearly will I do this." 

He then gravely, as became a gentleman whose 
heart was Hero's, made ready to marry a girl whom 
he did not love. He was told to meet her in 
Leonato's house, and was faithful to his appoint- 
ment. 

He was shown into a room where Antonio (Leon- 
ato's brother) and several masked ladies entered 
after him. Friar Francis, Leonato, and Benedick 
were present. 

Antonio led one of the ladies towards Claudio. 

"Sweet," said the young man, "let me see your 
face." 

102 







> > 



" Swear first to marry her," said Leonato. 

"Give me your hand," said Claudio to the lady; 
"before this holy friar I swear to marry you if you 
will be my wife." 

"Alive I was your wife," said the lady, as she 
drew off her mask. 

"Another Hero!" exclaimed Claudio. 

"Hero died," explained Leonato, "only while 
slander lived." 

The Friar was then going to marry the reconciled 
pair, but Benedick interrupted him with, "Softly, 
Friar; which of these ladies is Beatrice?" 

Hereat Beatrice unmasked, and Benedick said, 
"You love me, don't you?" 

"Only moderately," was the reply. "Do you love 
me?" 

"Moderately," answered Benedick. 

"I was told you were well-nigh dead for me," re- 
marked Beatrice. 

"Of you I was told the same," said Benedick. 

"Here's your own hand in evidence of your love," 
said Claudio, producing a feeble sonnet which Bene- 
dick had written to his sweetheart. 

103 






STORIES FROM SrtAKESPEARE -4- 




"And here," said Hero, "is a tribute to Benedick, 
which I picked out of the pocket of Beatrice." 

"A miracle!" exclaimed Benedick. "Our hands 
are against our hearts! Come, I will marry you, 
Beatrice." 

"You shall be my husband to save your life," was 
the rejoinder. 

Benedick kissed her on the mouth; and the Friar 
married them after he had married Claudio and 
Hero. 

"How is Benedick the married man?" asked Don 
Pedro. 

"Too happy to be made unhappy," replied Bene- 
dick. "Crack what jokes you will. As for you, 
Claudio, I had hoped to run you through the body, 
but as you are now my kinsman, live whole and love 
my cousin." 

"My cudgel was in love with you, Benedick, un- 
til to-day," said Claudio; but, "Come, come, let's 
dance," said Benedick. 

And dance they did. Not even the news of the 
capture of Don John was able to stop the flying 
feet of the happy lovers, for revenge is not sweet 
against an evil man who has failed to do harm. 

104 



«L 







ROMEO AND JULIET 




Romeo and Tybalt Fight. 



ROMEO AND JULIET 



n 



/^"XNCE upon a time there lived in Verona two 
^^ great families named Montagu and Capulet. 
They were both rich, and I suppose they were as 
sensible, in most things, as other rich people. But 
in one thing they were extremely silly. There was 
an old, old quarrel between the two families, and 
instead of making it up like reasonable folks, they 
made a sort of pet of their quarrel, and would not 
let it die out. So that a Montagu wouldn't speak 
to a Capulet if he met one in the street — nor a 
Capulet to a Montagu — or if they did speak, it was 
to say rude and unpleasant things, which often 

105 







ended in a fight. And their relations and servants 
were just as foolish, so that street fights and duels 
and uncomfortablenesses of that kind were always 
growing out of the Montagu-and-Capulet quarrel. 

Now Lord Capulet, the head of that family, gave 
a party — a grand supper and a dance — and he was 
so hospitable that he said anyone might come to it 
except (of course) the Montagues. But there was 
a young Montagu named Romeo, who very much 
wanted to be there, because Rosaline, the lady he 
loved, had been asked. This lady had never been 
at all kind to him, and he had no reason to love 
her; but the fact was that he wanted to love some- 
body, and as he hadn't seen the right lady, he was 
obliged to love the wrong one. So to the Capulet's 
grand party he came, with his friends Mercutio and 
Benvolio. 

Old Capulet welcomed him and his two friends 
very kindly — and young Romeo moved about among 
the crowd of courtly folk dressed in their velvets 
and satins, the men with jeweled sword* hilts and 
collars, and the ladies with brilliant gems on breast 
and arms, and stones of price set in their bright 

106 







girdles. Romeo was in his best too, and though 
he wore a black mask over his eyes and nose, every- 
one could see by his mouth and his hair, and the 
way he held his head, that he was twelve times hand- 
somer than anyone else in the room. 

Presently amid the dancers he saw a lady so beau- 
tiful and so lovable that from that moment he 
never again gave one thought to that Rosaline whom 
he had thought he loved. And he looked at this 
other fair lady, as she moved in the dance in her 
white satin and pearls, and all the world seemed 
vain and worthless to him compared with her. And 
he was saying this, or something like it, when Ty- 
balt, Lady Capulet's nephew, hearing his voice, 
knew him to be Romeo. Tybalt, being very angry, 
went at once to his uncle, and told him how a Mon- 
tagu had come uninvited to the feast ; but old Capu- 
let was too fine a gentleman to be discourteous to 
any man under his own roof, and he bade Tybalt be 
quiet. But this young man only waited for a 
chance to quarrel with Romeo. 

In the meantime Romeo made his way to the 
fair lady, and told her in sweet words that he loved 

107 




Hit^^ 



s 



her, and kissed her. Just then her mother sent for 
her, and then Romeo found out that the lady on 
whom he had set his heart's hopes was Juliet, the 
daughter of Lord Capulet, his sworn foe. So he 





Romeo Discovers Juliet. 

went away, sorrowing indeed, hut loving her none 
the less. 

Then Juliet said to her nurse: 

"Who is that gentleman that would not dance?" 

108 




m^t^m 




gs 



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y 



"His name is Romeo, and a Montagu, the only 
son of your great enemy," answered the nurse. 

Then Juliet went to her room, and looked out of 
her window, over the beautiful green-grey garden, 
where the moon was shining. And Romeo was hid- 
den in that garden among the trees — because he 
could not bear to go right away without trying to 
see her again. So she — not knowing him to be 
there — spoke her secret thought aloud, and told the 
quiet garden how she loved Romeo. 

And Romeo heard and was glad beyond measure. 
Hidden below, he looked up and saw her fair face 
in the moonlight, framed in the blossoming creep- 
ers that grew round her window, and as he looked 
and listened, he felt as though he had been carried 
away in a dream, and set down by some magician in 
that beautiful and enchanted garden. 

"Ah — why are you called Romeo?" said Juliet. 
"Since I love you, what does it matter what you are 
called?" 

"Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized — 
henceforth I never will be Romeo," he cried, step- 
ping into the full white moonlight from the shade 

109 







> > 



of the cypresses and oleanders that had hidden him. 
She was frightened at first, but when she saw that 
it was Romeo himself, and no stranger, she too was 
glad, and, he standing in the garden below and she 
leaning from the window* they spoke long together, 
each one trying to find the sweetest words in the 
world, to make that pleasant talk that lovers use. 
And the tale of all they said, and the sweet music 
their voices made together, is all set down in a golden 
book, where you children may read it for yourselves 
some day. 

And the time passed so quickly, as it does for 
folk who love each other and are together, that when 
the time came to part, it seemed as though they had 
met but that moment — and indeed they hardly knew 
how to part. 

"I will send to you to-morrow," said Juliet. 

And so at last, with lingering and longing, they 
said good-bye. 

Juliet went into her room, and a dark curtain hid 
her bright window. Romeo went away through the 
still and dewy garden like a man in a dream. 

The next morning, very early, Romeo went to 







V?§3 




Friar Laurence, a priest, and, telling him all the 
story, begged him to marry him to Juliet without 
delay. And this, after some talk, the priest con- 
sented to do. 

So when Juliet sent her old nurse to Xiomeo 
that day to know 
what he p u im- 
posed to do, the 
old woman took 
b a c k a message 
that all was well, 
and all things 
ready for the 
marriage of Ju- 
liet and liomeo 
on the next 

Marriage of Romeo and Juliet. 

morning. 

The young lovers were afraid to ask their parents' 
consent to their marriage, as young people should 
do, because of this foolish old quarrel between the 
Capulets and the Montagues. 

And Friar Laurence was willing to help the 
young lovers secretly, because he thought that when 






♦w 






they were once married their parents might soon be 
told, and that the match might put a happy end to 
the old quarrel. 

So the next morning early, Romeo and Juliet 
were married at Friar Laurence's cell, and parted 
with tears and kisses. And Romeo promised to 
come into the garden that evening, and the nurse 
got ready a rope-ladder to let down from the win- 
dow, so that Romeo could climb up and talk to his 
dear wife quietly and alone. 

But that very day a dreadful thing happened. 

Tybalt, the young man who had been so vexed 
at Romeo's going to the Capulet's feast, met him 
and his two friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, in the 
street, called Romeo a villain, and asked him to 
fight. Romeo had no wish to fight with Juliet's 
cousin, but Mercutio drew his sword, and he and 
Tybalt fought. And Mercutio was killed. When 
Romeo saw that this friend was dead, he forgot 
everything except anger at the man who had killed 
him, and he and Tybalt fought till Tybalt fell 
dead. 

So, on the very day of his wedding, Romeo killed 

112 




his dear Juliet's cousin, and was sentenced to be 
banished. Poor Juliet and her young husband met 
that night indeed ; he climbed the rope-ladder among 
the flowers, and found her window, but their meet- 
ing was a sad one, and they parted with bitter tears 
and hearts heavy, because they could not know when 
they should meet again. 

Now Juliet's father, who, of course, had no idea 
that she was married, wished her to wed a gentle- 
man named Paris, and was so angry when she re- 
fused, that she hurried away to ask Friar Laurence 
<>5 jjjM what she should do. He advised her to pretend to 
consent, and then he said : 

"I will give you a draught that will make you 
seem to be dead for two days, and then when they 
take you to church it will be to bury you, and not 
to marry you. They will put you in the vault think- 
ing you are dead, and before you wake up Romeo 
j/\ and I will be there to take care of you. Will you 
do this, or are you afraid?" 

"I will do it; talk not to me of fear!" said Juliet. 
And she went home and told her father she would 
marry Paris. If she had spoken out and told her 

113 







fiS3 



v^? 




> > 



father the truth . . . 
been a different story. 

Lord Capulet was very much pleased to get his 
own way, and set about inviting his friends and get- 
ting the wedding feast ready. Everyone stayed up 
all night, for there was a great deal to do, and very 
little time to do it in. Lord Capulet was anxious 
to get Juliet married because he saw she was very 
unhappy. Of course she was really fretting about 
her husband Romeo, but her father thought she was 
grieving for the death of her cousin Tybalt, and he 
thought marriage would give her something else to 
think about. 

Early in the morning the nurse came to call Juliet, 
and to dress her for her wedding ; but she would not 
wake, and at last the nurse cried out suddenly — 

"Alas! alas! help! help! my lady's dead! Oh, 
well-a-day that ever I was born!" 

Lady Capulet came running in, and then Lord 
Capulet, and Lord Paris, the bridegroom. There 
lay Juliet cold and white and lifeless, and all their 
weeping could not wake her. So it was a burying 
that day instead of a marrying. Meantime Friar 

114 




Jhi 



> > 



Laurence had sent a messenger to Mantua with a 
letter to Romeo telling him of all these things; and 
all would have been well, only the messenger was de- 
layed, and could not go. 

But ill news travels fast. Romeo's servant who 
knew the se- 
cret of the 
marriage, but 
not of Juliet's 
pretended 
death, heard 
of her funeral, 
and hurried to 
Mantua to tell 
Romeo how his 
young wife 
was dead and 
lying in the grave. 

"Is it so?" cried Romeo, heart-broken. "Then I 
will lie by Juliet's side to-night." 

And he. bought himself a poison, and went 
straight back to Verona. He hastened to the tomb 
where Juliet was lying. It was not a grave, but a 




The Nurse Thinks Juliet Dead. 








vault. He broke open the door, and was just going 
down the stone steps that led to the vault where 
all the dead Capulets lay, when he heard a voice be- 
hind him calling on him to stop. 

It was the Count Paris, who was to have mar- 
ried Juliet that very day. 

' 'How dare you come here and disturb the dead 
bodies of the Capulets, you vile Montagu?" cried 
Paris. 

Poor Romeo, half mad with sorrow, yet tried to 
answer gently. 

"You were told," said Paris, "that if you returned 
to Verona you must die." 

"I must indeed," said Romeo. "I came here for 
nothing else. Good, gentle youth — leave me! Oh, 
go — before I do you any harm! I love you better 
than myself — go — leave me here — " 

Then Paris said, "I defy you, and I arrest you as 
a felon," and Romeo, in his anger and despair, . 
drew his sword. They fought, and Paris was killed. 

As Romeo's sword pierced him, Paris cried — 

"Oh, I am slain! If thou be merciful, open the 
tomb, and lay me with Juliet!" 




I 



V33 



fi 



\ > 



And Romeo said, "In faith I will." 

And he carried the dead man into the tomb and 
laid him by the dear Juliet's side. Then he kneeled 
by Juliet and spoke to her, and held her in his arms, 
and kissed her cold lips, believing that she was dead, 
while all the 
while she was 
coming nearer 
and nearer to 
the time of her 
awaken- 
ing. Then he ^||ff ' 
drank the poi- 
son, and died 
beside his 
sweetheart and 
wife. 

Now came 
Friar Lau- 
rence when i t 
was too late, 
and saw all 
that had hap- 






pened — and then poor Juliet woke out of her sleep 
to find her husband and her friend both dead beside 
her. 

The noise of the fight had brought other folks 
to the place too, and Friar Laurence, hearing them, 
ran away, and Juliet was left alone. She saw the 
cup that had held the poison, and knew how all had 
happened, and since no poison was left for her, she 
drew her Romeo's dagger and thrust it through her 
heart — and so, falling with her head on her Romeo's 
breast, she died. And here ends the story of these 
faithful and most unhappy lovers. 

*«!» ■ . <1> Al>. «t>. <1* jfe 

Tfr vfr ^r Ifr rift ^flf 

And when the old folks knew from Friar Lau- 
rence of all that had befallen, they sorrowed exceed- 
ingly, and now, seeing all the mischief their wicked 
quarrel had wrought, they repented them of it, and 
over the bodies of their dead children they clasped 
hands at last, in friendship and forgiveness. 



118 





L=um 




y > 



PERICLES 

T3ERICLES, the Prince of Tyre, was unfortu- 
■*" nate enough to make an enemy of Antiochus, 
the powerful and wicked King of Antioch; and so 
great was the danger in which he stood that, on 
the advice of his trusty counselor, Lord Helicanus, 
he determined to travel about the world for a time. 
He came to this decision despite the fact that, by 
the death of his father, he was now King of Tyre. 
So he set sail for Tarsus, appointing Helicanus 
Regent during his absence. That he did wisely in 
thus leaving his kingdom was soon made clear. 

Hardly had he sailed on his voyage, when Lord 
Thaliard arrived from Antioch with instructions 
from his royal master to kill Pericles. The faithful 
Helicanus soon discovered the deadly purpose of 
this wicked lord, and at once sent messengers to 
Tarsus to warn the King of the danger which 
threatened him. 

119 





«g^^! 






> > 




The people of Tarsus were in such poverty and 
distress that Pericles, feeling that he could find no 
safe refuge there, put to sea again. But a dread- 
ful storm overtook the ship in which he was, and 
the good vessel was wrecked, while of all on board 
only Pericles was saved. Bruised and wet and 
faint, he was flung upon the cruel rocks on the coast 
of Pentapolis, the country of the good King Si- 
monides. Worn out as he was, he looked for noth- 
ing but death, and that speedily. But some fisher- 
men, coming down to the beach, found him there, 
and gave him clothes and bade him be of good 
cheer. 

"Thou shalt come home with me," said one of 
them, "and we will have flesh for holidays, fish for 
fasting days, and moreo'er, puddings and flapjacks, 
and thou shalt be welcome." 

They told him that on the morrow many princes 
and knights were going to the King's Court, there 
to joust and tourney for the love of his daughter, 
the beautiful Princess Thaisa. 

"Did but my fortunes equal my desires," said 
Pericles, "I'd wish to make one there." 

120 





v33 




u 



As he spoke, some of the fishermen came by, 
drawing their net, and it dragged heavily, resisting 
all their efforts, but at last they hauled it in, to 
find that it contained a suit of rusty armor; and 
looking at it, he blessed Fortune for her kindness, 
for he saw that it was his own, which had been given 
to him by his dead father. He begged the fisher- 
men to let him have it that he might go to Court and 
take part in the tournament, promising that if ever 
his ill fortunes bettered, he would reward them well. 
The fishermen readily consented, and being thus 
fully equipped, Pericles set off in his rusty armor to 
the King's Court. 

In the tournament none bore himself so well as 
Pericles, and he won the wreath of victory, which the 
fair Princess herself placed on his brows. Then at 
her father's command she asked him who he was, 
and whence he came; and he answered that he was 
a knight of Tyre, by name Pericles, but he did not 
tell her that he was the King of that country, for he 
knew that if once his whereabouts became known to 
Antiochus, his life would not be worth a pin's pur- 
chase. 

121 









v§53 





Nevertheless Thaisa loved him dearly, and the 
King was so pleased with his courage and grace- 
ful bearing that he gladly permitted his daughter 
to have her own way, when she told him she would 
marry the stranger knight or die. 

Thus Pericles became the husband of the fair lady 

for whose 
sake he had 
striven with 
the knights 
who came in 
all their brav- 
e r y to joust 
and tourney 
for her love. 
Meanwhile 
the wicked 
King Anti- 
ochus had died, and the people in Tyre, hearing no 
news of their King, urged Lord Helicanus to ascend 
the vacant throne. But they could only get him to 
promise that he would become their King, if at the 
end of a year Pericles did not come back. More- 

122 




Pericles Wins in the Tournament. 




s 




u 



over, he sent forth messengers far and wide in 
search of the missing Pericles. 

Some of these made their way to Pentapolis, and 
finding their King there, told him how discontented 
his people were at his long absence, and that, Anti- 
ochus being dead, there was nothing now to hinder 
him from returning to his kingdom. Then Per- 
icles told his wife and father-in-law who he really 
was, and they and all the subjects of Simonides 
greatly rejoiced to know that the gallant husband 
of Thaisa was a King in his own right. So Pericles 
set sail with his dear wife for his native land. But 
once more the sea was cruel to him, for again a 
dreadful storm broke out, and while it was at its 
height, a servant came to tell him that a little daugh- 
ter was born to him. This news would have made 
his heart glad indeed, but that the servant went on 
to add that his wife — his dear, dear Thaisa — was 
dead. 

While he was praying the gods to be good to his 
little baby girl, the sailors came to him, declaring 
that the dead Queen must be thrown overboard, for 
they believed that the storm would never cease so 

123 



^^^Mi 






♦w 






\ > 



long as a dead body remained in the vessel. So 
Thaisa was laid in a big chest with spices and jew- 
els, and a scroll on which the sorrowful King wrote 
these lines : — 

" Here I give to understand 
(If e'er this coffin drive a-land), 
I, King Pericles, have lost 
This Queen worth all our mundane cost. 
Who finds her, give her burying ; 
She was the daughter of a King; 
Besides this treasure for a fee, 
The gods requite his charity ! " 

Then the chest was cast into the sea, and the 
waves taking it, by and by washed it ashore at Ephe- 
sus, where it was found by the servants of a lord 
named Cerimon. He at once ordered it to be 
opened, and when he saw how lovely Thaisa looked, 
he doubted if she were dead, and took immediate 
steps to restore her. Then a great wonder hap- 
pened, for she, who had been thrown into the sea 
as dead, came back to life. But feeling sure that 
she would never see her husband again, Thaisa re- 
tired from the world, and became a priestess of the 
Goddess Diana. 

124 





s 



V3SJ 




16 



While these things were happening, Pericles went 
on to Tarsus with his little daughter, whom he called 
Marina, because she had been born at sea. Leaving 
her in the hands of his old friend the Governor of 
Tarsus, the King sailed for his own dominions. 

Now Dionyza, the wife of the Governor of Tar- 
sus, was a jealous and wicked woman, and finding 
that the young Princess grew up a more accom-' 
plished and charming girl than her own daughter, 
she determined to take Marina's life. So when 
Marina was fourteen, Dionyza ordered one of her 
servants to take her away and kill her. This villain 
would have done so, but that he was interrupted 
by some pirates who came in and carried Marina 
off to sea with them, and took her to Mitylene, where 
they sold her as a slave. Yet such was her good- 
ness, her grace, and her beauty, that she soon be- 
came honored there, and Lysimachus, the young 
Governor, fell deep in love with her, and would have 
married her, but that he thought she must be of too 
humble parentage to become the wife of one in his 
high position. 

The wicked Dionyza believed, from her servant's 

125 








report, that Marina was really dead, and so she put 
up a monument to her memory, and showed it to 
King Pericles, when after long years of absence he 
came to see his much-loved child. When he heard 
that she was dead, his grief was terrible to see. He 
set sail once more, and putting on sackcloth, vowed 
never to wash his face or cut his hair again. There 
was a pavilion erected on deck, and there he lay 
alone, and for three months he spoke word to 
none. 

At last it chanced that his ship came into the port 
of Mitylene, and Lysimachus, the Governor, went 
on board to enquire whence the vessel came. When 
he heard the story of Pericles' sorrow and silence, 
he bethought him of Marina, and believing that she 
could rouse the King from his stupor, sent for her 
and bade her try her utmost to persuade the King 
to speak, promising whatever reward she would, if 
she succeeded. Marina gladly obeyed, and send- 
ing the rest away, she sat and sang to her poor 
grief-laden father, yet, sweet as was her voice, he 
made no sign. So presently she spoke to him, say- 
ing that her grief might equal his, for, though she 

126 





^^^^fi 




s 



> > 



was a slave, she came from ancestors that stood equal 
to mighty kings. 

Something in her voice and story touched the 
King's heart, and he looked up at her, and as he 
looked, he saw with wonder how like she was to his 




Pericles and Maeina. 

lost wife, so with a great hope springing up in his 
heart, he bade her tell her story. 

Then, with many interruptions from the King, 
she told him who she was and how she had escaped 
from the cruel Dionyza. So Pericles knew that this 
was indeed his daughter, and he kissed her again 
and again, crying that his great seas of joy drowned 

127 






him with their sweetness. "Give me my robes/' he 
said: "0 Heaven, bless my girl!" 

Then there came to him, though none else could 
hear it, the sound of heavenly music, and falling 
asleep, he beheld the goddess Diana, in a vision. 

"Go," she said to him, "to my temple at Ephesus, 
and when my maiden priests are met together, re- 
veal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife." 

Pericles obeyed the goddess and told his tale be- 
fore her altar. Hardly had he made an end, when 
the chief priestess, crying out, "You are — you are — 
O royal Pericles!" fell fainting to the ground, and 
presently recovering, she spoke again to him, "O 
my lord, are you not Pericles?" "The voice of 
dead Thaisa!" exclaimed the King in wonder. 
"That Thaisa am I," she said, and looking at her he 
saw that she spoke the very truth. 

Thus Pericles and Thaisa, after long and bitter 
suffering, found happiness once more, and in the 
joy of their meeting they forgot the pain of the 
past. To Marina great happiness was given, and 
not only in being restored to her dear parents; for 
she married Lysimachus, and became a princess in 
the land where she had been sold as a slave. 



128 





^^^ai 





^ 



ri 



\ > 



y 



HAMLET 

TJAMLET was the only son of the King of 
■*■ ■*■ Denmark. He loved his father and mother 
dearly — and was happy in the love of a sweet lady 
named Ophelia. Her father, Polonius, was the 
King's Chamberlain. 

While Hamlet was away studying at Wittenberg, 
his father died. Young Hamlet hastened home in 
great grief to hear that a serpent had stung the 
King, and that he was dead. The young Prince 
had loved his father so tenderly that you may judge 
what he felt when he found that the Queen, before 
yet the King had been laid in the ground a month, 
had determined to marry again — and to marry the 
dead King's brother. 

Hamlet refused to put off mourning for the wed- 
ding. 

"It is not only the black I wear on my body," he 
said, "that proves my loss. I wear mourning in my 

129 







heart for my dead father. His son at least re- 
members him, and grieves still." 

Then said Claudius the King's brother, "This 
grief is unreasonable. Of course you must sorrow 
at the loss of your father, but — " 

"Ah," said Hamlet, bitterly, "I cannot in one 
little month forget those I love." 

With that the Queen and Claudius left him, to 
make merry over their wedding, forgetting the poor 
good King who had been so kind to them both. 

And Hamlet, left alone, began to wonder and 
to question as to what he ought to do. For he could 
not believe the story about the snake-bite. It 
seemed to him all too plain that the wicked Claudius 
had killed the King, so as to get the crown and 
marry the Queen. Yet he had no proof, and could 
not accuse Claudius. 

And while he was thus thinking came Horatio, a 
fellow student of his, from Wittenberg. 

"What brought you here?" asked Hamlet, when 
he had greeted his friend kindly. 

"I came, my lord, to see your father's funeral." 

"I think it was to see my mother's wedding," said 



130 



M»i... 



f 






&i 



Hamlet, bitterly. "My father! We shall not look 

upon his like again." 

"My lord," answered Horatio, "I think I saw him 

yesternight." 

Then, while Hamlet listened in surprise, Horatio 

told how he, with two gentlemen of the guard, had 

seen the King's 

ghost on the bat- 
tlements. Hamlet 

went that night, 

and true enough, 
\ ' *^\ at midnight, the 

ghost of the King, 

in the armor he 

had been wont to 

wear, appeared on 

the' battlements in The King ' s Ghost appeabs. 

the chill moonlight. Hamlet was a brave youth. 
|//*^| Instead of running away from the ghost he spoke 
^ > to it — and when it beckoned him he followed it to a 

quiet place, and there the ghost told him that what 

he had suspected was true. The wicked Claudius 

had indeed killed his good brother the King, by 






VS 



dropping poison into his ear as he slept in his orchard 
in the afternoon. 

"And you," said the ghost, "must avenge this 
M cruel murder — on my wicked brother. But do noth- 
ing against the Queen — for I have loved her, and 
she is your mother. Remember me." 

Then seeing the morning approach, the ghost van- 
ished. 

"Now," said Hamlet, "there is nothing left but 
revenge. Remember thee — I will remember noth- 
ing else — books, pleasure, youth — let all go — and 
your commands alone live on my brain." 

So when his friends came back he made them 
swear to keep the secret of the ghost, and then went 
in from the battlements, now gray with mingled 
dawn and moonlight, to think how he might best 
avenge his murdered father. 

The shock of seeing and hearing his father's 
ghost made him feel almost mad, and for fear that 
his uncle might notice that he was not himself, he 
determined to hide his mad longing for revenge un- 
der a pretended madness in other matters. 

And when he met Ophelia, who loved him — and 

132 




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I = 




2 

h — 



♦w 



m^^rn^ 






to 



to whom he had given gifts, and letters, and many 
loving words — he behaved so wildly to her, that she 
could not but think him mad. For she loved him 
so that she could not believe he would be as cruel as 
this, unless he were quite mad. So she told her 
father, and showed him a pretty letter from Hamlet. 
And in the letter was much folly, and this pretty 
verse — 

" Doubt that the stars are fire ; 

Doubt that the sun doth move ; 
Doubt truth to be a liar; 
But never doubt I love." 

And from that time everyone believed that the cause 
of Hamlet's supposed madness was love. 

Poor Hamlet was very unhappy. He longed to 
obey his father's ghost — and yet he was too gentle 
and kindly to wish to kill another man, even his 
father's murderer. And sometimes he wondered 
whether, after all, the ghost spoke truly. 

Just at this time some actors came to the Court, 
and Hamlet ordered them to perform a certain play 
before the King and Queen. Now, this play was 
the story of a man who had been murdered in his 

133 




^^^m 





^ > 



garden by a near relation, who afterwards married 
the dead mans wife. 

You may imagine the feelings of the wicked 
King, as he sat on his throne, with the Queen beside 
him and all his Court around, and saw, acted on the 
stage, the very wickedness that he had himself done. 
And when, in the play, the wicked relation poured 
poison into the ear of the sleeping man, the wicked 
Claudius suddenly rose, and staggered from the 
room — the Queen and others following. 

Then said Hamlet to his friends — 

"Now I am sure the ghost spoke true. For if 
Claudius had not done this murder, he could not 
have been so distressed to see it in a play." 

Now the Queen sent for Hamlet, by the King's 
desire, to scold him for his conduct during the play, 
and for other matters; and Claudius, wishing to 
know exactly what happened, told old Polonius to 
hide himself behind the hangings in the Queen's 
room. And as they talked, the Queen got fright- 
ened at Hamlet's rough, strange words, and cried 
for help, and Polonius behind the curtain cried out 
too. Hamlet, thinking it was the King who was 

134 






hidden there, thrust with his sword at the hangings, 
and killed, not the King, but poor old Polonius. 
So now Hamlet had offended his uncle and his 



y 




Polonius Killed by Hamlet. 

mother, and by bad hap killed his true love's father. 
"Oh! what a rash and bloody deed is this," cried 
the Queen. 

135 






And Hamlet answered bitterly, "Almost as bad 
as to kill a king, and marry his brother." Then 
Hamlet told the Queen plainly all his thoughts and 
how he knew of the murder, and begged her, at 
least, to have no more friendship or kindness of the 
base Claudius, who had killed the good King. And 
as they spoke the King's ghost again appeared be- 
fore Hamlet, but the Queen could not gee it. So 
when the ghost had gone, they parted. 

When the Queen told Claudius what had passed, 
and how Polonius was dead, he said, "This shows 
plainly that Hamlet is mad, and since he has killed 
the Chancellor, it is for his own safety that we must 
carry out our plan, and send him away to Eng- 
land." 

So Hamlet was sent, under charge of two court- 
iers who served the King, and these bore letters to 
the English Court, requiring that Hamlet should 
be put to death. But Hamlet had the good sense 
to get at these letters, and put in others instead, with 
the names of the two courtiers who were so ready 
to betray him. Then, as the vessel went to Eng- 
land, Hamlet escaped on board a pirate ship, and the 

136 






STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE -*• 



s 





two wicked courtiers left him to his fate, and went 
on to meet theirs. 

Hamlet hurried home, but in the meantime a 
dreadful thing had happened. Poor pretty Ophe- 
lia, having lost her lover and her father, lost her 
wits too, and went in 
sad madness about 
the Court, with 
straws, and weeds, 
and flowers in her 
hair, singing strange 
scraps of songs, and 
talking poor, foolish, 
pretty talk with no 
heart of meaning to 
it. And one d a y, 
coming to a stream 
where willows grew, 
she tried to hang a 
flowery garland on a willow, and fell into the water 
with all her flowers, and so died. 

And Hamlet had loved her, though his plan of 
seeming madness had made him hide it; and when 

137 




Drowning of Ophelia. 



=. = 




^^^» 






he came back, he found the King and Queen, and 
the Court, weeping at the funeral of his dear love 
and lady. 

Ophelia's brother, Laertes, had also just come to 
Court to ask justice for the death of his father, old 
Polonius; and now, wild with grief, he leaped into 
his sister's grave, to clasp her in his arms once more. 

"I loved her more than forty thousand brothers," 
cried Hamlet, and leapt into the grave after him, 
and they fought till they were parted. 

Afterwards Hamlet begged Laertes to forgive 
him. 

"I could not bear," he said, "that any, even a 
brother, should seem to love her more than I." 

But the wicked Claudius would not let them be 
friends. He told Laertes how Hamlet had killed 
old Polonius, and between them they made a plot 
to slay Hamlet by treachery. 

Laertes challenged him to a fencing match, and 
all the Court were present. Hamlet had the blunt 
foil always used in fencing, but Laertes had pre- 
pared for himself a sword, sharp, and tipped with 
poison. And the wicked King had made ready a 

138 








> > 



bowl of poisoned wine, which he meant to give poor 
Hamlet when he should grow warm with the sword 
play, and should call for drink. 

So Laertes and Hamlet fought, and Laertes, 
after some fencing, gave Hamlet a sharp sword 
thrust. Hamlet, angry at this treachery — for they 
had been fencing, not as men fight, but as they play 
— closed with Laertes in a struggle; both dropped 
their swords, and when they picked them up again, 
Hamlet, without noticing it, had exchanged his own 
blunt sword for Laertes' sharp and poisoned one. 
And with one thrust of it he pierced Laertes, who 
fell dead by his own treachery. 

At this moment the Queen cried out, "The drink, 
the drink! Oh, my dear Hamlet! I am poisoned!" 

She had drunk of the poisoned bowl the King had 
prepared for Hamlet, and the King saw the Queen, 
whom, wicked as he was, he really loved, fall dead 
by his means. 

Then Ophelia being dead, and Polonius, and the 
Queen, and Laertes, and the two courtiers who had 
been sent to England, Hamlet at last found courage 
to do the ghost's bidding and avenge his father's 




139 




murder — which, if he had braced up his heart to do 
long before, all these lives had been spared, and none 
had suffered but the wicked King, who well deserved 
to die. 

Hamlet, his heart at last being great enough to 
do the deed he ought, turned the poisoned sword on 
the false King. 

"Then — venom — do thy work!" he cried, and the 
King died. 

So Hamlet in the end kept the promise he had 
made his father. And all being now accomplished, 
he himself died. And those who stood by saw him 
die, with prayers and tears, for his friends and his 
people loved him with their whole hearts. Thus 
ends the tragic tale of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. 



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IMOGEN 





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y^YMBELINE was the King of Britain. He 
^-^ had three children. The two sons were 
stolen away from him when they were quite little 
children, and he was left with only one daughter, 
Imogen. The King married a second time, and 
brought up Leonatus, the son of a dear friend, as 
Imogen's playfellow; and when Leonatus was old 
enough, Imogen secretly married him. This made 
the King and Queen very angry, and the King, to 
punish Leonatus, banished him from Britain. 



v» 




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Poor Imogen was nearly heart-broken at parting 
from Leonatus, and he was not less unhappy. For 
they were not only lovers and husband and wife, but 
they had been friends and comrades ever since they 
were quite little children. With many tears and 
kisses they said "Good-bye," They promised never 
to forget each other, and that they would never care 
for anyone else as long as they lived. 

"This diamond was my mother's, love," said Imo- 
gen; "take it, my heart, and keep it as long as you 
love me." 

"Sweetest, fairest," answered Leonatus, "wear 
this bracelet for my sake." 

"Ah!" cried Imogen, weeping, "when shall we 
meet again?" 

And while they were still in each other's arms, the 
King came in, and Leonatus had to leave without 
more farewell. 

When he was come to Rome, where he had gone 
to stay with an old friend of his father's, he spent his 
days still in thinking of his dear Imogen, and his 
nights in dreaming of her. One day at a feast some 
Italian and French noblemen were talking of their 

142 




m^^mm 





vs 




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sweethearts, and swearing that they were the most 
faithful and honorable and beautiful ladies in the 
world. And a Frenchman reminded Leonatus how 
he had said many times that his wife Imogen was 
more fair, wise, and constant than any of the ladies 
in France. 

"I say so still," said Leonatus. 

"She is not so good but that she would deceive," 
said Iachimo, one of the Italian nobles. 

"She never would deceive," said Leonatus. 

"I wager," said Iachimo, "that, if I go to Britain, 
I can persuade your wife to do whatever I wish, even 
if it should be against your wishes." 

"That you will never do," said Leonatus. "I 
wager this ring upon my finger," which was the very 
ring Imogen had given him at parting, "that my 
wife will keep all her vows to me, and that you will 
never persuade her to do otherwise." 

So Iachimo wagered half his estate against the 
ring on Leonatus 's finger, and started forthwith for 
Britain, with a letter of introduction to Leonatus's 
wife. When he reached there he was received with 
all kindness; but he was still determined to win his 




wager. 



143 




^ > 



He told Imogen that her husband thought no 
more of her, and went on to tell many cruel lies 
about him. Imogen listened at first, but presently 
perceived what a wicked person Iachimo was, and 
ordered him to leave her. Then he said — 

"Pardon me, fair lady, all that I have said is un- 
true. I only told you this to see whether you would 
believe me, or whether you were as much to be 
trusted as your husband thinks. Will you forgive 
me?" 

"I forgive you freely," said Imogen. 

"Then," went on Iachimo, "perhaps you will 
prove it by taking charge of a trunk, containing a 
number of jewels which your husband and I and 
some other gentlemen have bought as a present for 
the Emperor of Rome." 

"I will indeed," said Imogen, "do anything for 
my husband and a friend of my husband's. Have 
the jewels sent into my room, and I will take care 
of them." 

"It is only for one night," said Iachimo, "for I 
leave Britain again to-morrow." 

So the trunk was carried into Imogen's room, and 

144 






♦♦H 



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that night she went to bed and to sleep. When she 
was fast asleep, the lid of the trunk opened and a 
man got out. It was Iachimo. The story about the 
jewels was as untrue as the rest of the things he had 
said. He had only wished to get into her room to 
win his wicked wager. He looked about him and 
noticed the fur- 
niture, and then 
crept to the side 
of the bed where 
Imogen was 
asleep and took iachimo m the Tkunk. 

from her arm the gold bracelet which had been the 
parting gift of her husband. Then he crept back 
to the trunk, and next morning sailed for Rome. 

When he met Leonatus, he said — 

"I have been to Britain and I have won the wager, 
for your wife no longer thinks about you. She 
stayed talking with me all one night in her room, 
which is hung with tapestry and has a carved chim- 
ney-piece, and silver andirons in the shape of two 
winking Cupids." 

" I do not believe she has forgotten me ; I do not 

145 



^^^» 










believe she stayed talking with you in her room. 
You have heard her room described by the servants." 

"Ah!" said Iachimo, "but she gave me this brace- 
let. She took it from her arm. I see her yet. Her 
pretty action did outsell her gift," and yet enriched it 
too. She gave it me, and said she prized it once." 

"Take the ring," cried Leonatus, "you have won; 
and you might have won my life as well, for I care 
nothing for it now I know my lady has forgotten 
me." 

And mad with anger, he wrote letters to Britain 
to his old servant, Pisanio, ordering him to take Imo- 
gen to Milford Haven, and to murder her, because 
she had forgotten him and given away his gift. At 
the same time he wrote to Imogen herself, telling her 
to go with Pisanio, his old servant, to Milford 
Haven, and that he, her husband, would be there to 
meet her. 

Now when Pisanio got this letter he was too good 
to carry out its orders, and too wise to let them alone 
altogether. So he gave Imogen the letter from her 
husband, and started with her for Milford Haven. 
Before he left, the wicked Queen gave him a drink 

146 






M^SX 




I 



JhL 



which, she said, would be useful in sickness. She 
hoped he would give it to Imogen, and that Imogen 
would die, and the wicked Queen's son could be 
King. For the Queen thought this drink was a 
poison, but really and truly it was only a sleeping- 
draft. 

tWhen Pisanio and Imogen came near to Milf ord 
Haven, he told her what was really in the letter he 
had had from her husband. 

"I must go on to Rome, and see him myself," said 
Imogen. 

And then Pisanio helped her to dress in boy's 
clothes, and sent her on her way, and went back to 
the Court. Before he went he gave her the drink 
he had had from the Queen. 

Imogen went on, getting more and more tired, 
and at last came to a cave. Someone seemed to live 
there, but no one was in just then. So she went in, 
and as she was almost dying of hunger, she took 
some food she saw there, and had just done so, when 
an old man and two boys came into the cave. She 
was very much frightened when she saw them, for 
she thought that they would be angry with her for 

147 






K^^^ 





> > 



taking their food, though she had meant to leave 
money for it on the table. But to her surprise they 
welcomed her kindly. She looked very pretty in her 
boy's clothes and her face was good, as well as 
pretty. 

"You shall be our brother," said both the boys; 
and so she stayed with them, and helped to cook the 
food, and make things comfortable. But one day 
when the old man, whose name was Bellarius, was 
out hunting with the two boys, Imogen felt ill, and 
thought she would try the medicine Pisanio had 
given her. So she took it, and at once became like a 
dead creature, so that when Bellarius and the boys 
came back from hunting, they thought she was dead, 
and with many tears and funeral songs, they carried 
her away and laid her in the wood, covered with flow- 
ers. 

They sang sweet songs to her, and strewed flowers 
on her, pale primroses, and the azure harebell, and 
eglantine, and furred moss, and went away sorrow- 
ful. No sooner had they gone than Imogen awoke, 
and not knowing how she came there, nor where she 
was, went wandering through the wood. 

148 



-v*»v 




s 




Now while Imogen had been living in the cave, 
the Romans had decided to attack Britain, and their 
army had come over, and with them Leonatus, who 
had grown sorry for his wickedness against Imogen, 
so had come back, not to fight with the Romans 
against Britain, but with the Britons against Rome. 
So as Imogen wandered alone, she met with Lucius, 
the Roman General, and took service with him as his 
page. 

When the battle was fought between the Romans 
and Britons, Bellarius and his two boys fought for 
their own country, and Leonatus, disguised as a 
British peasant, fought beside them. The Romans 
had taken Cymbeline prisoner, and old Bellarius, 
with his sons and Leonatus, bravely rescued the 
King. Then the Britons won the battle, and among 
the prisoners brought before the King were Lucius, 
with Imogen, Iachimo, and Leonatus, who had put 
on the uniform of a Roman soldier. He was tired 
of his life since he had cruelly ordered his wife to be 
killed, and he hoped that, as a Roman soldier, he 
would be put to death. 

When they were brought before the King, Lucius 
spoke out— 14g 








'A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer," he 
said. "If I must die, so be it. This one thing only 
will I entreat. My boy, a Briton born, let him be 
ransomed. Never master had a page so kind, so 
duteous, diligent, true. He has done no Briton 
harm, though he has served a Roman. Save him, 



sir. 



Then Cymbeline looked on the page, who was his 



v-s.^, 




Imogen Stupefied. 

own daughter, Imogen, in disguise, and though he 
did not recognize her, he felt such a kindness that 
he not only spared the boy's life, but he said — 

"He shall have any boon he likes to ask of me, 
even though he ask a prisoner, the noblest taken." 

Then Imogen said, "The boon I ask is that this 
gentleman shall say from whom he got the ring he 
has on his finger," and she pointed to Iachimo. 

150 






f 



"Speak," said Cymbeline, "how did you get that 
diamond?" 

Then Iachimo told the whole truth of his villainy. 
At this, Leonatus was unable to contain himself, 
and casting 
aside all 
thought of dis- 
guise, he came 
forward, curs- 
ing himself 
for his folly 
in having be- 
lieved Iachi- 
mo's lying 
story, and call- 
ing again and 
again on his 
wife whom he 

believed dead. 

ar\i t Imogen and Leonatus. 

(Jn, 1 m o - 
gen, my love, my life!" he cried. "Oh, Imogen!" 
Then Imogen, forgetting she was disguised, cried 
out, "Peace, my lord — here, here!" 





151 





Leonatus turned to strike the forward page who 
thus interfered in his great trouble, and then he saw 
that it was his wife, Imogen, and they fell into each 
other's arms. 

The King was so glad to see his dear daughter 
again, and so grateful to the man who had rescued 
him (whom he now found to be Leonatus), that he 
gave his blessing on their marriage, and then he 
turned to Bellarius, and the two boys. Now Bella- 
rius spoke — 

"I am your old servant, Bellarius. You accused 
me of treason when I had only been loyal to you, and 
to be doubted, made me disloyal. So I stole your 
two sons, and see, — they are here!" And he brought 
forward the two boys, who had sworn to be brothers 
to Imogen when they thought she was a boy like 
themselves. 

The wicked Queen was dead of some of her own 
poisons, and the King, with his three children about 
him, lived to a happy old age. 

So the wicked were punished, and the good and 
true lived happy ever after. So may the wicked 
suffer, and honest folk prosper till the world's end. 

152 



X 



1 
* 





HEN a person is asked to tell the story of 
Macbeth, he can tell two stories. One is of 
a man called Macbeth who came to the throne of 
Scotland by a crime in the year of our Lord 1039, 
and reigned justly and well, on the whole, for fifteen 
years or more. This story is part of Scottish his- 
tory. The other story issues from a place called 
Imagination; it is gloomy and wonderful, and you 
shall hear it. 

153 





STORIES FROM. SMAKESPEARE -*• r- 



<v. 




A year or two before Edward the Confessor 
began to rule England, a battle was won in Scotland 
against a Norwegian King by two generals named 

Macbeth and 
Banquo. A f- 
ter the battle, 
the g e nerals 
walked to- 
gether towards 
Forres, in El- 
ginshire, where 
Duncan, King 
of Scot land, 
was awaiting 
them. 

While they 
were crossing 

a lonely heath, 
From "Macbeth." they saw three 

bearded women, sisters, hand in hand, withered in 
appearance and wild in their attire. 

"Speak, who are you?" demanded Macbeth. 

"Hail, Macbeth, chieftain of Glamis," said the 
first woman. .-^ 










\33 





"Hail, Macbeth, chieftain of Cawdor," said the 
second woman. 

"Hail, Macbeth, King that is to be," said the third 
woman. 

Then Banquo asked, "What of me?" and the third 
woman replied, "Thou shalt be the father of kings." 

"Tell me more," said Macbeth. "By my father's 
death I am chieftain of Glamis, but the chieftain 
of Cawdor lives, and the King lives, and his children 
live. Speak, I charge you!" 

The women replied only by vanishing, as though 
suddenly mixed with the air. 

Banquo and Macbeth knew then that they had 
been addressed by witches, and were discussing their 
prophecies when two nobles approached. One of 
them thanked Macbeth, in the King's name, for his 
military services, and the other said, "He bade me 
call you chieftain of Cawdor." 

Macbeth then learned that the man who had yes- 
terday borne that title was to die for treason, and he 
could not help thinking, "The third witch called me, 
'King that is to be.' " 

"Banquo," he said, "you see that the witches spoke 

155 







> > 



truth concerning me. Do you not believe, therefore, 
that your child and grandchild will be kings?" 

Banquo frowned. Duncan had two sons, Malcolm 
and Donalbain, and he deemed it disloyal to hope 
that his son Fleance should rule Scotland. He told 
Macbeth that the witches might have intended to 
tempt them both into villainy by their prophecies 
concerning the throne. Macbeth, however, thought 
the prophecy that he should be King too pleasant to 
keep to himself, and he mentioned it to his wife in a 
letter. 

Lady Macbeth was the grand- daughter of a King 
of Scotland who had died in defending his crown 
against the King who preceded Duncan, and by 
whose order her only brother was slain. To her, 
Duncan was a reminder of bitter wrongs. Her hus- 
band had royal blood in his veins, and when she read 
his letter, she was determined that he should be 
King. 

When a messenger arrived to inform her that 
Duncan would pass a night in Macbeth 's castle, she 
nerved herself for a very base action. 

She told Macbeth almost as soon as she saw him 

156 





K^^^ 




s 




* 



that Duncan must spend a sunless morrow. She 
meant that Duncan must die, and that the dead are 
blind. "We will speak further," said Macbeth un- 
easily, and a t 
night, with h i s 
memory full of 
Duncan's kind 
words, he would 
fain have spared 
his guest. 

"Would you 
live a coward?" 
demanded Lady 
Macbeth, who 
seems to have 
thought that 
morality and 
cowardice were 

+u^ ™™^ Lady Macbeth. 

the same. 

"I dare do all that may become a man," replied 
Macbeth; "who dare do more is none." 

"Why did you write that letter to me?" she in- 
quired fiercely, and with bitter words she egged him 

157 








vs 




it 



on to murder, and with cunning words she showed 
him how to do it. 

After supper Duncan went to bed, and two 
grooms were placed on guard at his bedroom door. 
Lady Macbeth caused them to drink wine till they 
were stupefied. She then took their daggers and 
would have killed the King herself if his sleeping 
face had not looked like her father's. 

Macbeth came later, and found the daggers lying 
by the grooms ; and soon with red hands he appeared 
before his wife, saying, "Methought I heard a voice 
cry, 'Sleep no more! Macbeth destroys the sleep- 
ing.' " 

"Wash your hands," said she. "Why did you not 
leave the daggers by the grooms ? Take them back, 
and smear the grooms with blood." 

"I dare not," said Macbeth. 

His wife dared, and she returned to him with 
hands red as his own, but a heart less white, she 
proudly told him, for she scorned his fear. 

The murderers heard a knocking, and Macbeth 
wished it was a knocking which could wake the dead. 
It was the knocking of Macduff, the chieftain of 



158 




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^^^» 




s 



vss? 




Fife, who had been told by Duncan to visit him 
early. Macbeth went to him, and showed him the 
door of the King's room. 

Macduff entered, and came out again crying, "O 
horror! horror! horror!" 

Macbeth appeared as horror-stricken as Macduff, 
and pretending that he could not bear to see life in 




King and Queen Macbeth. 

Duncan's murderers, he slew the two grooms with 
their own daggers before they could proclaim their 
innocence. 

These murders did not shriek out, and Macbeth 
was crowned at Scone. One of Duncan's sons went 
to Ireland, the other to England. Macbeth was 





> > 



y 



King. But he was discontented. The prophecy 
concerning Banquo oppressed his mind. If Fleance 
were to rule, a son of Macbeth would not rule. Mac- 
beth determined, therefore, to murder both Banquo 
and his son. He hired two ruffians, who slew Ban- 
quo one night when he was on his way with Fleance 
to a banquet which Macbeth was giving to his nobles. 
Fleance escaped. 

Meanwhile Macbeth and his Queen received their 
guests very graciously, and he expressed a wish for 
them which has been uttered thousands of times 
since his day — "Now good digestion wait on appe- 
tite, and health on both." 

"We pray your Majesty to sit with us," said Len- 
nox, a Scotch noble; but ere Macbeth could reply, 
the ghost of Banquo entered the banqueting hall 
and sat in Macbeth's place. 

Not noticing the ghost, Macbeth observed that, if 
Banquo were present, he could say that he had col- 
lected under his roof the choicest chivalry of Scot- 
land. Macduff, however, had curtly declined his in- 
vitation. 

The King was again pressed to take a seat, and 

160 



mm^s^m. 





5o 



Lennox, to whom Banquo's ghost was invisible, 
showed him the chair where it sat. 

But Macbeth, with his eyes of genius, saw the 
ghost. He saw it like a form of mist and blood, and 
he demanded passionately, "Which of you have done 
this?" 

Still none saw the ghost but he, and to the ghost 
Macbeth said, "Thou canst not say I did it." 

The ghost glided out, and Macbeth was impudent 
enough to raise a glass of wine "to the general joy 
of the whole table, and to our dear friend Banquo, 
whom we miss.' 3 

The toast was drunk as the ghost of Banquo en- 
tered for the second time. 

"Begone!" cried Macbeth. "You are senseless, 
mindless! Hide in the earth, thou horrible shadow." 

Again none saw the ghost but he. 

"What is it your Majesty sees?" asked one of the 
nobles. 

The Queen dared not permit an answer to be given 
to this question. She hurriedly begged her guests 
to quit a sick man who was likely to grow worse if 
he was obliged to talk. 

161 






S3 




Macbeth, however, was well enough next day to 
converse with the witches whose prophecies had so 
depraved him. 

He found them in a cavern on a thunderous day. 
They were revolving round a cauldron in which were 
boiling particles of many strange and horrible crea- 
tures, and they knew he was coming before he ar- 
rived. 

"Answer me what I ask you," said the King. 

"Would you rather hear it from us or our mas- 
ters?" asked the first witch. 

"Call them," replied Macbeth. 

Thereupon the witches poured blood into the caul- 
dron and grease into the flame that licked it, and a 
helmeted head appeared with the visor on, so that 
Macbeth could only see its eyes. 

He was speaking to the head, when the first witch 
said gravely, "He knows thy thought," and a voice 
in the head said, "Macbeth, beware Macduff, the 
chieftain of Fife." The head then descended into 
the cauldron till it disappeared. 

"One word more," pleaded Macbeth. 

"He will not be commanded," said the first witch, 

162 



f 







vs 




> N 



and then a crowned child ascended 
dron bearing a tree in his hand. The 

" Macbeth shall be unconquerable till 
The Wood of Birnam climbs Dunsinane Hill." 

"That will never be," said Macbeth; and he asked 
to be told if Banquo's descendants would ever rule 
Scotland. 

The cauldron sank into the earth; music was 
heard, and a procession of phantom kings filed past 
Macbeth; behind them was Banquo's ghost. In 
each king Macbeth saw a likeness to Banquo, and he 
counted eight kings. 

Then he was suddenly left alone. 

His next proceeding was to send murderers to 
Macduff's castle. They did not find Macduff, and 
asked Lady Macduff where he was. She gave a 
stinging answer, and her questioner called Macduff 
a traitor. "Thou liest!" shouted Macduff's little 
son, who was immediately stabbed, and with his last 
breath entreated his mother to fly. The murderers 
did not leave the castle while one of its inmates re- 
mained alive. 

163 



V^^^^m 






♦w 






Macduff was in England listening, with Mal- 
colm, to a doctor's tale of cures wrought by Edward 
the Confessor when his friend Ross came to tell him 
that his wife and children were no more. At first 
Ross dared not speak the truth, and turn Macduff's 
bright sympathy with sufferers relieved by royal vir- 
tue into sorrow and hatred. But when Malcolm said 
that England was sending an army into Scotland 
against Macbeth, Ross blurted out his news, and 
Macduff cried, "All dead, did you say? All my 
pretty ones and their mother? Did you say all?" 

His sorry hope was in revenge, but if he could 
have looked into Macbeth's castle on Dunsinane 
Hill, he would have seen at work a force more sol- 
emn than revenge. Retribution was working, for 
Lady Macbeth was mad. She walked in her sleep 
amid ghastly dreams. She was wont to wash her 
hands for a quarter of an hour at a time ; but after 
all her washing, would still see a red spot of blood 
upon her skin. It was pitiful to hear her cry that 
all the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten her 
little hand. 

"Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?" 

164 



♦Hi 
f 



at^^s^ 



-5- BEAUTIFUL/ STORIES FROM. SHAKESPEARE ■*■ 



fc= 



V§53 



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y 



<v. 



inquired Macbeth of the doctor, but the doctor re- 
plied that his patient must minister to her own 
mind. This reply gave Macbeth a scorn of medi- 
cine. "Throw physic to the dogs," he said; "I'll 
none of it." 

One day he heard a sound of women crying. An 
officer approched him and said, "The Queen, your 
Majesty, is dead." "Out, brief candle," muttered 
Macbeth, meaning that life was like a candle, at the 
mercy of a puff of air. He did not weep; he was 
too familiar with death. 

Presently a messenger told him that he saw Bir- 
nam Wood on the march. Macbeth called him a 
liar and a slave, and threatened to hang him if he 
had made a mistake. "If you are right you can 
hang me," he said. 

From the turret windows of Dunsinane Castle, 
Birnam Wood did indeed appear to be marching. 
Every soldier of the English army held aloft a 
bou^h which he had cut from a tree in that wood, 
and like human trees they climbed Dunsinane Hill. 

Macbeth had still his courage. He went to battle 
to conquer or die, and the first thing he did was to 

165 





m^^mm 




■ • . -N 



kill the English general's son in single combat. 
Macbeth then felt that no man could fight him and 
live, and when Macduff came to him blazing for 
revenge, Macbeth said to him, "Go back; I have 
spilt too much of your blood already." 



c^ 






V^? 




u 




Macbeth and Macduff Fight. 

"My voice is in my sword," replied Macduff, 
and hacked at him and bade him yield. 

"I will not yield!" said Macbeth, but his last hour 
^ had struck. He fell. 

Macbeth's men were in retreat when Macduff 

166 



| | 

§ s 
s = 








came before Malcolm holding a King's head by the 
hair. 

"Hail, King!" he said; and the new King looked 
£i\ at the old. 

So Malcolm reigned after Macbeth; but in years 
that came afterwards the descendants of Banquo 
were kings. 





> > 



167 



V33 




THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 

/I j^GEQN was a merchant of Syracuse, which is 
-^ J--4 a seaport in Sicily. His wife was iEmilia, 
and they were very happy until iEgeon's manager 
died, and he was obliged to go by himself to a place 
called Epidamnum on the Adriatic. As soon as she 
could iEmilia followed him, and after they had been 
together some time two baby boys were born to 
them. The babies were exactly alike; even when 
they were dressed differently they looked the same. 

And now you must believe a very strange thing. 
At the same inn where these children were born, and 
on the same day, two baby boys were born to a 
much poorer couple than iEmilia and JEgeon; so 
poor, indeed, were the parents of these twins that 
they sold them to the parents of the other twins. 

iEmilia was eager to show her children to her 
friends in Syracuse, and in treacherous weather she 
and iEgeon and the four babies sailed homewards. 

168 







They were still far from Syracuse when their ship 
sprang a leak, and the crew left it in a body by the 
only boat, caring little what became of their passen- 
gers. 

iEmilia fastened one of her children to a mast 
and tied one of the slave-children to him; iEgeon 
followed her example with the remaining children. 
Then the parents secured themselves to the same 
masts, and hoped for safety. 

The ship, however, suddenly struck a rock and 
was split in two, and iEmilia, and the two children 
whom she had tied, floated away from iEgeon and 
the other children. iEmilia and her charges were 
picked up by some people of Epidamnum, but some 
fishermen of Corinth took the babies from her by 
force, and she returned to Epidamnum alone, and 
very miserable. Afterwards she settled in Ephesus, 
a famous town in Asia Minor. 

iEgeon and his charges were also saved; and, 
more fortunate than ^Emilia, he was able to return 
to Syracuse and keep them till they were eighteen. 
His own child he called Antipholus, and the slave- 
child he called Dromio ; and, strangely enough, these 

169 







> > 



were the names given to the children who floated 
away from him. 

At the age of eighteen the son who was with 
iEgeon grew restless with a desire to find his brother. 
iEgeon let him depart with his servant, and the 




Antipholus and Dromio. 

young men are henceforth known as Antipholus of 
Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. 

Let alone, iEgeon found his home too dreary to 
dwell in, and traveled for five years. He did not, 
during his absence, learn all the news of Syracuse, 
or he would never have gone to Ephesus. 

170 




«^^^ii 






> > 



As it was, his melancholy wandering ceased in 
that town, where he was arrested almost as soon 
as he arrived. He then found that the Duke of 
Syracuse had been acting in so tyrannical a man- 
ner to Ephesians unlucky enough to fall into his 
hands, that the Government of Ephesus had angrily 
passed a law which punished by death or a fine of 
a thousand pounds any Syracusan who should come 
to Ephesus. iEgeon was brought before Solinus, 
Duke of Ephesus, who told him that he must die 
or pay a thousand pounds before the end of the 
day. 

You will think there was fate in this when I tell 
you that the children who were kidnaped by the 
fishermen of Corinth were now citizens of Ephesus, 
whither they had been brought by Duke Menaphon, 
an uncle of Duke Solinus. They will henceforth 
be called Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of 
Ephesus. 

Moreover, on the very day when iEgeon was 
arrested, Antipholus of Syracuse landed in Ephesus 
and pretended that he came from Epidamnum in 
order to avoid a penalty. He handed his money to 

171 




a s 



3^^^^ 




his servant Dromio of Syracuse, and bade him take 
it to the Centaur Inn and remain there till he came. 

In less than ten minutes he was met on the Mart 
by Dromio of Ephesus, his brother's slave, and 
immediately mistook him for his own Dromio. 
"Why are you back so soon? Where did you leave 
the money?" asked Antipholus of Syracuse. 

This Dromio knew of no money except sixpence, 
which he had received on the previous Wednesday 
and given to the saddler; but he did know that his 
mistress was annoyed because his master was not in 
to dinner, and he asked Antipholus of Syracuse to 
go to a house called The Phoenix without delay. 
His speech angered the hearer, who would have 
beaten him if he had not fled. Antipholus of Syra- 
cuse them went to The Centaur, found that his gold 
had been deposited there, and walked out of the inn. 

He was wandering about Ephesus when two 
beautiful ladies signaled to him with their hands. 
They were sisters, and their names were Adriana 
and Luciana. Adriana was the wife of his brother 
Antipholus of Ephesus, and she had made up her 
mind, from the strange account given her by Dromio 

172 




of Ephesus, that her husband preferred another 
woman to his wife. "Ay, you may look as if you 
did not know me," she said to the man who was 
»V| really her brother-in-law, "but I can remember when 
no words were sweet unless I said them, no meat 
flavorsome unless I carved it." 

"Is it I you address?" said Antipholus of Syra- 
cuse stiffly. "I do not know you." 

"Fie, brother," said Luciana. "You know per- 
fectly well that she sent Dromio to you to bid you 
come to dinner"; and Adriana said, "Come, come; 
I have been made a fool of long enough. My tru- 
ant husband shall dine with me and confess his silly 
pranks and be forgiven." 

They were determined ladies, and Antipholus of 
Syracuse grew weary of disputing with them, and 
followed them obediently to The Phoenix, where a 
very late "mid-day" dinner awaited them. 

They were at dinner when Antipholus of Ephe- 
sus and his slave Dromio demanded admittance. 
"Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cecily, Gillian, Ginn!" 
shouted Dromio of Ephesus, who knew all his fel- 
low-servants' names by heart. 

173 






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^?ws 




> > 



From within came the reply, "Fool, dray-horse, 
coxcomb, idiot!" It was Dromio of Syracuse un- 
consciously insulting his brother. 

Master and man did their best to get in, short 
of using a crowbar, and finally went away ; but An- 
tipholus of Ephesus felt so annoyed with his wife 
that he decided to give a gold chain which he had 
promised her, to another woman. 

Inside The Phoenix, Luciana, who believed Anti- 
pholus of Syracuse to be her sister's husband, at- 
tempted, by a discourse in rhyme, when alone with 
him, to make him kinder to Adriana. In reply he 
told her that he was not married, but that he loved 
her so much that, if Luciana were a mermaid, he 
would gladly lie on the sea if he might feel beneath 
him her floating golden hair. 

Luciana was shocked and left him, and reported 
his lovemaking to Adriana, who said that her hus- 
band was old and ugly, and not fit to be seen or 
heard, though secretly she was very fond of him. 

Antipholus of Syracuse soon received a visitor in 
the shape of Angelo the goldsmith, of whom Anti- 
pholus of Ephesus had ordered the chain which he 

174 







had promised his wife anc 
other woman. 

The goldsmith handed the chain to Antipholus of 
Syracuse, and treated his "I bespoke it not" as mere 
fun, so that the puzzled merchant took the chain as 




LUCIANA AND ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. 

good-humoredly as he had partaken of Adriana's 
dinner. He offered payment, but Angelo foolishly 
said he would call again. 

The consequence was that Angelo was without 
money when a creditor of the sort that stands no 
nonsense, threatened him with arrest unless he paid 

175 




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> > 



his debt immediately. This creditor had brought a 
police officer with him, and Angelo was relieved to 
see Antipholus of Ephesus coming out of the house 
where he had been dining because he had been locked 
out of The Phoenix. Bitter was Angelo's dismay 
when Antipholus denied receipt of the chain. An- 
gelo could have sent his mother to prison if she had 
said that, and he gave Antipholus of Ephesus in 
charge. 

At this moment up came Dromio of Syracuse and 
told the wrong Antipholus that he had shipped his 
goods, and that a favorable wind was blowing. To 
the ears of Antipholus of Ephesus this talk was 
simple nonsense. He would gladly have beaten the 
slave, but contented himself with crossly telling him 
to hurry to Adriana and bid her send to her arrested 
husband a purse of money which she would find in 
his desk. 

Though Adriana was furious with her husband 
because she thought he had been making love to 
her sister, she did not prevent Luciana from getting 
the purse, and she bade Dromio of Syracuse bring 
home his master immediately. 

176 






ti 



u 



Unfortunately, before Dromio could reach the 
police station he met his real master, who had never 
been arrested, and did not understand what he 
meant by offering him a purse. Antipholus of 
Syracuse was further surprised when a lady whom 
he did not know asked him for a chain that he 
had promised her. She was, of course, the lady 
with whom Antipholus of Ephesus had dined when 
his brother was occupying his place at table. 
"Avaunt, thou witch!" was the answer which, to her 
astonishment, she received. 

Meanwhile Antipholus of Ephesus waited vainly 
for the money which was to have released him. 
Never a good-tempered man, he was crazy with an- 
ger when Dromio of Ephesus, who, of course, had 
not been instructed to fetch a purse, appeared with 
nothing more useful than a rope. He beat the 
slave in the street despite the remonstrance of the 
police officer; and his temper did not mend when 
Adriana, Luciana, and a doctor arrived under the 
impression that he was mad and must have his pulse 
felt. He raged so much that men came forward to 
bind him. But the kindness of Adriana spared him 

177 







¥ 



this shame. She promised to pay the sum de- 
manded of him, and asked the doctor to lead him to 
The Phoenix. 

Angelo's merchant creditor being paid, the two 
were friendly again, and might soon have been seen 
chatting before an abbey about the odd behavior 




of Antipholus of Ephesus. "Softly," said the mer- 
chant at last, "that's he, I think." 

It was not; it was Antipholus of Syracuse with 
his servant Dromio, and he wore Angelo's chain 
round his neck ! The reconciled pair fairly pounced 
upon him to know what he meant by denying the 

178 








> > 



receipt of the chain he had the impudence to wear. 
Antipholus of Syracuse lost his temper, and drew 
his sword, and at that moment Adriana and several 
others appeared. "Hold!" shouted the careful 
wife. "Hurt him not; he is mad. Take his sword 
away. Bind him — and Dromio too." 

Dromio of Syracuse did not wish to be bound, and 
hejsaid to his master, "Run, master! Into that ab- 
bey, quick, or we shall be robbed!" 

They accordingly retreated into the abbey. 

Adriana^ Luciana, and a crowd remained outside, 
and the Abbess came out, and said, "People, why do 
you gather here?" 

"To fetch my poor distracted husband," replied 
Adriana. 

Angelo and the merchant remarked that they had 
not known that he was mad. 

Adriana then told the Abbess rather too much 
about her wifely worries, for the Abbess received the 
idea that Adriana was a shrew, and that if her hus- 
band was distracted he had better not return to her 
for the present. 

Adriana determined, therefore, to complain to 

179 








m 



Duke Solinus, and, lo and behold! a minute after- 
wards the great man appeared with officers and two 
others. The others were JEgeon and the headsman. 
The thousand marks had not been found, and 
iEgeon's fate seemed sealed. 

Ere the Duke could pass the abbey Adriana knelt 
before him, and told a woeful tale of a mad husband 
rushing about stealing jewelry and drawing his 
sword, adding that the Abbess refused to allow her 
to lead him home. 

The Duke bade the Abbess be summoned, and no 
sooner had he given the order than a servant from 
The Phoenix ran to Adriana with the tale that his 
master had singed off the doctor's beard. 

"Nonsense!" said Adriana, "he's in the abbey." 

"As sure as I live I speak the truth," said the serv- 
ant. 

Antipholus of Syracuse had not come out of the 
abbey, before his brother of Ephesus prostrated him- 
self in front of the Duke, exclaiming, "Justice, 
most gracious Duke, against that woman." He 
pointed to Adriana. "She has treated another man 
like her husband in my own house." 

180 







^ 




Even while he was speaking iEgeon said, "Unless 
I am delirious, I see my son AntipholuSo" 

No one noticed him, and A tipholus of Ephesus 
went on to say 
how the doctor, 
whom he called 
"a threadbare 
juggler," had 
been one of a 
gang who tied 
him to his slave 
Dromio, and 
thrust them 
into a vault 
whence he h a d 
escaped by 
gnawing 
through his 
bonds. 

The Duke could not understand how the same 
man who spoke to him was seen to go into the ab- 
bey, and he was still wondering when iEgeon asked 
Antipholus of Ephesus if he was not his son. He 








-f- BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE •*• 



•A*/****, 



s 




replied, "I never saw my father in my life;" but so 
deceived was !ZEgeon by his likeness to the brother 
whom he had brought up, that he said, "Thou art 
ashamed to acknowledge me in misery." 

Soon, however, the Abbess advanced with Anti- 
pholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. 

Then cried Adriana, "I see two husbands or mine 
eyes deceive me;" and Antipholus, espying his fa- 
ther, said, "Thou art iEgeon or his ghost." 

It was a day of surprises, for the Abbess said, "I 
will free that man by paying his fine, and gain my 
husband whom I lost. Speak, iEgeon, for I am thy 
wife JEmilia." 

The Duke was touched. "He is free without a 
fine," he said. 

So iEgeon and iEmilia were reunited, and Adri- 
ana and her husband reconciled ; but no one was hap- 
pier than Antipholus of Syracuse, who, in the 
Duke's presence, went to Luciana and said, "I told 
you I loved you. Will you be my wife?" 

Her answer was given by a look, and therefore is 
not written. 

The two Dromios were glad to think they would 
receive no more beatings. 

182 







CHOOSING THE CASKET 



A 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

NTONIO was a rich and prosperous merchant 
of Venice. His ships were on nearly every 
sea, and he traded with Portugal, with Mexico, with 
England, and with India. Although proud of his 
riches, he was very generous with them, and de- 
lighted to use them in relieving the wants of his 
friends, among whom his relation, Bassanio, held 
the first place. 

Now Bassanio, like many another gay and gallant 
gentleman, was reckless and extravagant, and find- 
ing that he had not only come to the end of his 
fortune, but was also unable to pay his creditors, 
he went to Antonio for further help. 

"To you, Antonio," he said, "I owe the most in 
money and in love: and I have thought of a plan 
to pay everything I owe if you will but help me." 

"Say what I can do, and it shall be done," an- 
swered his friend. 

183 







> > 



Then said Bassanio, "In Belmont is a lady richly 
left, and from all quarters of the globe renowned 
suitors come to woo her, not only because she is 
rich, but because she is beautiful and good as well. 
She looked on me with such favor when last we 
met, that I feel sure that I should win her away 
from all rivals for her love had I but the means to 
go to Belmont, where she lives." 

"All my fortunes," said Antonio, "are at sea, and 
so I have no ready money; but luckily my credit is 
good in Venice, and I will borrow for you what you 
need." 

There was living in Venice at this time a rich 
money-lender, named Shylock. Antonio despised 
and disliked this man very much, and treated him 
with the greatest harshness and scorn. He would 
thrust him, like a cur, over his threshold, and would 
even spit on him. Shylock submitted to all these 
indignities with a patient shrug; but deep in his 
heart he cherished a desire for revenge on the rich, 
smug merchant. For Antonio both hurt his pride 
and injured his business. "But for him," thought 
Shylock, "I should be richer by half a million 

184 




vs 




ducats. On the market place, and wherever he can, 
he denounces the rate of interest I charge, and — 
worse than that — he lends out money freely." 

So when Bassanio came to him to ask for a loan 
of three thousand ducats to Antonio for three 
months, Shylock hid his hatred, and turning to An- 
tonio, said — "Harshly as you have treated me, I 
would be friends with you and have your love. So 
I will lend you the money and charge you no in- 
terest. But, just for fun, you shall sign a bond in 
which it shall be agreed that if you do not repay 
me in three months' time, then I shall have the right 
to a pound of your flesh, to be cut from what part 
of your body I choose." 

"No," cried Bassanio to his friend, "y° u shall run 
no such risk for me." 

"Why, fear not," said Antonio, "my ships will be 
home a month before the time. I will sign the 
bond." 

Thus Bassanio was furnished with the means to 
go to Belmont, there to woo the lovely Portia. The 
very night he started, the money-lender's pretty 
daughter, Jessica, ran away from her father's house 

185 



%m^gm& 







s 




with her lover, and she took with her from her fa- 
ther's hoards some bags of ducats and precious 
stones. Shylock's grief and anger were terrible to 
see. His love for her changed to hate. "I would 
she were dead at my feet and the jewels in her ear," 
he cried. His only comfort now was in hearing of 
the serious losses which had befallen Antonio, some 
of whose ships were wrecked. "Let him look to 
his bond," said Shy lock, "let him look to his bond." 
Meanwhile Bassanio had reached Belmont, and 
had visited the fair Portia. He found, as he had 
told Antonio, that the rumor of her wealth and 
beauty had drawn to her suitors from far and near. 
But to all of them Portia had but one reply. She 
would only accept that suitor who would pledge 
himself to abide by the terms of her father's will. 
These were conditions that frightened away many 
an ardent wooer. For he who would win Portia's 
heart and hand, had to guess which of three caskets 
held her portrait. If he guessed aright, then Por- 
tia would be his bride ; if wrong, then he was bound 
by oath never to reveal which casket he chose, never 
to marry, and to go away at once. 

186 






v^? 




The caskets were of gold, silver, and lead. The 
gold one bore this inscription: — "Who chooseth me 
shall gain what many men desire" ; the silver one had 
this: — "Who chooseth me shall get as much as he 
deserves"; while on 
the lead one were 
these words: — "Who 
chooseth me must 
give and hazard all 
he hath.' The 
Prince of Morocco, 
as brave as he was 
black, was among 
the first to submit to 
this test. He chose 
the gold casket, for 
he said neither base 
lead nor silver could 
contain her picture. 
So he chose the gold casket, and found inside the 
likeness of what many men desire — death. 

After him came the haughty Prince of Arragon, 
and saying, "Let me have what I deserve — surely I 

187 




The Prince of Morocco. 




~ = 




> > 



deserve the lady," he chose the silver one, and found 

inside a fool's head. "Did I deserve no more than 

a fool's head?" he cried. 

Then at last came Bassanio, and Portia would 

have delayed him from making his choice from very 

fear of his 
choosing 
wrong. For 
she loved him 
dearly, even as 
he loved her. 
"But," said 
Bassanio, "let 
me choose at 
once, for, as I 
am, I live upon 

Antonio Signs the Bond. the rack." 

Then Portia bade her servants to bring music and 
play while her gallant lover made his choice. And 
Bassanio took the oath and walked up to the cas- 
kets — the musicians playing softly the while. 
"Mere outward show," he said, "is to be despised. 
The world is still deceived with ornament, and so no 

188 






> N 



gaudy gold or shining silver for me. I choose the 
lead casket; joy be the consequence!" And open- 
ing it, he found fair Portia's portrait inside, and he 
turned to her and asked if it were true that she was 
his. 

"Yes," said Portia, "I am yours, and this house 
is yours, and with them I give you this ring, from 
which you must never part." 

And Bassanio, saying that he could hardly speak 
for joy, found words to swear that he would never 
part with the ring while he lived. 

Then suddenly all his happiness was dashed with 
sorrow, for messengers came from Venice to tell 
him that Antonio was ruined, and that Shylock de- 
manded from the Duke the fulfilment of the bond, 
under which he was entitled to a pound of the mer- 
chant's flesh. Portia was as grieved as Bassanio to 
hear of the danger which threatened his friend. 

"First," she said, "take me to church and make me 
your wife, and then go to Venice at once to help 
your friend. You shall take with you money 
enough to pay his debt twenty times over." 

But when her newly-made husband had gone, Por- 

189 






vs 




tia went after him, and arrived in Venice disguised 
as a lawyer, and with an introduction from a cele- 
brated lawyer Bellario, whom the Duke of Venice 
had called in to decide the legal questions raised by 
Shylock's claim to a pound of Antonio's flesh. 
When the Court met, Bassanio offered Shylock 
twice the money borrowed, if he would withdraw his 
claim. But the money-lender's only answer was — 

" If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them, — I would have my bond." 

It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, 
and not even her own husband knew her. The 
Duke gave her welcome on account of the great 
Bellario's introduction, and left the settlement of 
the case to her. Then in noble words she bade Shy- 
lock have mercy. But he was deaf to her entreaties. 
"I will have the pound of flesh," was his reply. 

"What have you to say?" asked Portia of the 
merchant. 

"But little," he answered; "I am armed and well 
prepared." 

190 








\t 



"The Court awards you a pound of Antonio's 
flesh," said Portia to the money-lender. 

"Most righteous judge!" cried Shylock. 
sentence : come, 
prepare." 

"Tarry a lit- 
tle. This bond 
gives you no 
right to Anto- J 
nio's blood, only 
to his flesh. If, 
then, you spill 
a drop of his 
blood, all your 
property will be 
forfeited to the 
State. Such is 
the Law." 

And Shylock, 
in his fear, said, 
"Then I will 
take Bassanio's offer." 

"No," said Portia sternly, "you shall have noth 



^^^i» 






ing but your bond. Take your pound of flesh, but 
remember, that if you take more or less, even by the 
weight of a hair, you will lose your property and 
your life." 

Shy lock now grew very much frightened. "Give 
me my three thousand ducats that I lent him, and 
let him go." 

Bassanio 
would have 
paid it to him, 
but said Portia, 

^Xii^MSSW^ " No! HeshaI1 

have nothing 
but his bond." 

"You, a for- 
eigne r," she 
added, "have 
sought to take 
the life of a Venetian citizen, and thus by the Vene- 
tian law, your life and goods are forfeited. Down, 
therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke." 

Thus were the tables turned, and no mercy would 
have been shown to Shylock, had it not been for 

192 




Bassanio Parts with the King. 








Antonio. As it was, the money-lender forfeited 
half his fortune to the State, and he had to settle 
the other half on his daughter's husband, and with 
this he had to be content. 

Bassanio, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, 
was induced to part with the ring his wife had given 
him, and with which he had promised never to part, 
and when on his return to Belmont he confessed as 
much to Portia, she seemed very angry, and vowed 
she would not be friends with him until she had her 
ring again. But at last she told him that it was 
she who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had saved his 
friend's life, and got the ring from him. So Bas- 
sanio was forgiven, and made happier than ever, to 
know how rich a prize he had drawn in the lottery 
of the caskets. 




193 






T710UR hundred years before the birth of Christ, 
-*"■ a man lived in Athens whose generosity was not 
only great, but absurd. He was very rich, but no 
worldly wealth was enough for a man who spent 
and gave like Timon. If anybody gave Timon a 
horse, he received from Timon twenty better horses. 
If anybody borrowed money of Timon and offered 
to repay it, Timon was offended. If a poet had 
written a poem and Timon had time to read it, he 
would be sure to buy it; and a painter had only to 

194 




^^g» 





v§53 





hold up his canvas in front of Timon to receive 
double its market price. 

Flavius, his steward, looked with dismay at his 
reckless mode of life. When Timon's house was 
full of noisy lords drinking and spilling costly wine, 
Flavius would sit in a cellar and cry. He would 
say to himself, "There are ten thousand candles 
burning in this house, and each of those singers 
braying in the concert-room costs a poor man's 
yearly income a night"; and he would remember a 
terrible thing said by Apemantus, one of his mas- 
ter's friends, "O what a number of men eat Timon, 
and Timon sees them not!" 

Of course, Timon was much praised. 

A jeweler who sold him a diamond pretended that 
it was not quite perfect till Timon wore it. "You 
mend the jewel by wearing it," he said. Timon 
gave the diamond to a lord called Sempronius, and 
the lord exclaimed, "O, he's the very soul of bounty." 
"Timon is infinitely dear to me," said another lord, 
called Lucullus, to whom he gave a beautiful horse ; 
and other Athenians paid him compliments as sweet. 

But when Apemantus had listened to some of 

195 




SESS&aC 





them, he said, 'Tm going to knock out an honest 
Athenian's brains." 

"You will die for that," said Timon. 
♦rj "Then I shall die for doing nothing," said Ape- 

mantus. And now you know what a joke was like 
four hundred years before Christ. 

This Apemantus was a frank despiser of man- 
kind, but a healthy one, because he was not unhappy. 
In this mixed world anyone with a number of ac- 
quaintances knows a person who talks bitterly of 
men, but does not shun them, and boasts that he is 
never deceived by their fine speeches, and is inwardly 
cheerful and proud. Apemantus was a man like 
that. 

Timon, you will be surprised to hear, became 
much worse than Apemantus, after the dawning of 
a day which we call Quarter Day. 

Quarter Day is the day when bills pour in. The 
grocer, the butcher, and the baker are all thinking 
of their debtors on that day, and the wise man has 
saved enough money to be ready for them. But 
Timon had not ; and he did not only owe money for 
food. He owed it for jewels and horses and fur- 

196 



K 




■m^&sx 




-5- BEAUTIFUL/ STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE -r- 




^ 



VZJ 




\ N 



u 



niture; and, worst of all, he owed it to money-lend- 
ers, who expected him to pay twice as much as he 
had borrowed. 

Quarter Day is a day when promises to pay are 
scorned, and on that day Timon was asked for a 
large sum of money. "Sell some land," he said to 
his steward, 
"You have no 
land," was the 
reply. "Non- 
sense ! I h a d 
a hundred 
thousand 
acres," said 
Timon. "You 

COllld have Painter Showing Timon a Picture. 

spent the price of the world if you had possessed it," 
said Flavius. 

"Borrow some then," said Timon; "try Ventid- 
ius." He thought of Ventidius because he had 
once got Ventidius out of prison by paying a 
creditor of this young man. Ventidius was now 
rich. Timon trusted in his gratitude. But not 

197 






^^^m 





for all; so much did he owe! Servants were de- 
spatched with requests for loans of money to sev- 
eral friends: 

One servant (Flaminius) went to Lucullus. 
When he was announced Lucullus said, "A gift, I 
warrant. I dreamt of a silver jug and basin last 
night." Then, changing his tone, "How is that hon- 
orable, free-hearted, perfect gentleman, your mas- 
ter, eh?" 

"Well in health, sir," replied Flaminius. 

"And what have you got there under your cloak?" 
asked Lucullus, jovially. 

"Faith, sir, nothing but an empty box, which, on 
my master's behalf, I beg you to fill with money, 
sir." 

"La! la! la!" said Lucullus, who could not pre- 
tend to mean, "Ha! ha! ha!" "Your master's one 
fault is that he is too fond of giving parties. I've 
warned him that it was expensive. Now, look here, 
Flaminius, you know this is no time to lend money 
without security, so suppose you act like a good boy 
and tell him that I was not at home. Here's three 
solidares for yourself." 

198 







> > 




"Back, wretched money," cried Flaminius, "to him 
who worships you!" 

Others of Timon's friends were tried and found 
stingy. Amongst them was Sempronius. 

"Hum," he said to Timon's servant, "has he asked 
Ventidius? Ventidius is beholden to him." 

"He refused." 

"Well, have you asked Lucullus?" 

"He refused." 

"A poor compliment to apply to me last of all," 
said Sempronius, in affected anger. "If he had 
sent to me at first, I would gladly have lent him 
money, but I'm not going to be such a fool as to lend 
him any now." 

"Your lordship makes a good villain," said the 
servant. 

When Timon found that his friends were so mean, 
he took advantage of a lull in his storm of creditors 
to invite Ventidius and Company to a banquet. 
Flavius was horrified, but Ventidius and Company 
were not in the least ashamed, and they assembled 
accordingly in Timon's house, and said to one an- 
other that their princely host had been jesting with 
them. 19Q 







"I had to put off an important engagement in 
order to come here," said Lucullus; "but who could 
refuse Timon?" 

"It was a real grief to me to be without ready 

money when he 
asked for some," 
said Sempronius. 

"T he same 
here," chimed in a 
third lord. 

Timon now ap- 
peared, and his 
guests vied with 
one another i n 
apologies and 
compliments. In- 
wardly sneering, 
Timon was gra- 
cious to them all. 
In the banqueting hall was a table resplendent 
with covered dishes. Mouths watered. These sum- 
mer-friends loved good food. 

"Be seated, worthy friends," said Timon. He 

200 




"Nothing but an Empty Box. 








tt 



then prayed aloud to the gods of Greece. "Give 
each man enough," he said, "for if you, who are our 
gods, were to borrow of men they would cease to 
adore you. Let men love the joint more than the 
host. Let every score of guests contain twenty vil- 
lains. Bless my friends as much as they have 
blessed me. Uncover the dishes, dogs, and lap !" 

The hungry lords were too much surprised by 
this speech to resent it. They thought Timon was 
unwell, and, although he had called them dogs, they 
uncovered the dishes. 

There was nothing in them but warm water. 

"May you never see a better feast," wished Ti- 
mon. "I wash off the flatteries with which you plas- 
tered me and sprinkle you with your villainy." 
With these words he threw the water into his guests' 
faces, and then he pelted them with the dishes. 
Having thus ended the banquet, he went into an out- 
house, seized a spade, and quitted Athens for ever. 

His next dwelling was a cave near the sea. 

Of all his friends, the only one who had not re- 
fused him aid was a handsome soldier named Alci- 
biades, and he had not been asked because, having 

201 




m^^^m 





vs 




quarreled with the Government of Athens, he had 
left that town. The thought that Alcibiades might 
have proved a true friend did not soften Timon's 
bitter feeling. He was too weak-minded to discern 
the fact that good cannot be far from evil in -this 
mixed world. He determined to see nothing better 
in all mankind than the ingratitude of Ventidius 
and the meanness of Lucullus. 

He became a vegetarian, and talked pages to him- 
self as he dug in the earth for food. 

One day, when he was digging for roots near the 
shore, his spade struck gold. If he had been a wise 
man he would have enriched himself quickly, and 
returned to Athens to live in comfort. But the 
sight of the gold vein gave no joy but only scorn 
to Timon. "This yellow slave," he said, "will make 
and break religions. It will make black white and 
foul fair. It will buy murder and bless the ac- 
cursed." 

He was still ranting when Alcibiades, now an 
enemy of Athens, approached with his soldiers and 
two beautiful women who cared for nothing but 
pleasure. 

202 




'm^^rn^ 







Timon was so changed by his bad thoughts and 
rough life that Alcibiades did not recognize him at 
first. 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

"A beast, as you are," was the reply. 

Alcibiades knew his voice, and offered him help 
and money. But Timon would none of it, and be- 
gan to insult the women. They, however, when 
they found he had discovered a gold mine, cared not 
a jot for his opinion of them, but said, "Give us 
some gold, good Timon. Have you more?" 

With further insults, Timon filled their aprons 
with gold ore. 

"Farewell," said Alcibiades, who deemed that Ti- 
mon's wits were lost; and then his disciplined sol- 
diers left without profit the mine which could 
have paid their wages, and marched towards 
Athens. 

Timon continued to dig and curse, and affected 
great delight when he dug up a root and discovered 
that it was not a grape. 

Just then Apemantus appeared. "I am told that 
you imitate me," said Apemantus. 

203 




an§^^ 




"Only," said Timon, "because you haven't a dog 
which I can imitate." 

"You are revenging yourself on your friends by 
punishing yourself," said Apemantus. "That is 
very silly, for they live just as comfortably as they 





Timon Grows Sullen. 

ever did. I am sorry that a fool should imitate 
me." I ^ 

"If I were like you," said Timon, "I should throw |HH 
myself away." I A 

204 





> > 



"You have done so," sneered Apemantus. "Will 
the cold brook make you a good morning drink, or 
an east wind warm your clothes as a valet would?" 

"Off with you!" said Timon; but Apemantus 
stayed a while longer and told him he had a passion 
for extremes, which was true. Apemantus even 
made a pun, but there was no good laughter to be 
got out of Timon. 

Finally, they lost their temper like two schoolboys, 
and Timon said he was sorry to lose the stone which 
he flung at Apemantus, who left him with an evil 
wish. 

This was almost an "at home" day for Timon, for 
when Apemantus had departed, he was visited by 
some robbers. They wanted gold. 

"You want too much," said Timon. "Here are 
water, roots and berries." 

"We are not birds and pigs," said a robber. 

"No, you are cannibals," said Timon. "Take the 
gold, then, and may it poison you ! Henceforth rob 
one another." 

He spoke so frightfully to them that, though they 
went away with full pockets, they almost repented 
of their trade. 






> > 



His last visitor on that day of visits was his good 
steward Flavius. "My dearest master!" cried he. 

"Away! What are you?" said Timon. 

"Have you forgotten me, sir?" asked Flavius, 
mournfully. 

"I have forgotten all men," was the reply; "and 
if you'll allow that you are a man, I have forgotten 

you." 

"I was your honest servant," said Flavius. 

"Nonsense! I never had an honest man about 
me," retorted Timon. 

Flavius began to cry. 

"What! shedding tears?" said Timon. "Come 
nearer, then. I will love you because you are a 
woman, and unlike men, who only weep when they 
laugh or beg." 

They talked awhile; then Timon said, "Yon gold 
is mine. I will make you rich, Flavius, if you 
promise me to live by yourself and hate mankind. 
I will make you very rich if you promise me that 
you will see the flesh slide off the beggar's bones be- 
fore you feed him, and let the debtor die in jail 
before you pay his debt." 







Flavius simply said, "Let me stay to comfort you, 
my master." 

"If you dislike cursing, leave me," replied Ti- 
mon, and he turned his back on Flavius, who went 
sadly back to Athens, too much accustomed to obe- 
dience to force his services upon his ailing master. 

The steward had accepted nothing, but a report 
got about that a mighty nugget of gold had been 
given him by his former master, and Timon there- 
fore received more visitors. They were a painter 
and a poet, whom he had patronized in his pros- 
perity. 

"Hail, worthy Timon !" said the poet. "We heard 
with astonishment how your friends deserted you. 
No whip's large enough for their backs!" 

"We have come," put in the painter, "to offer our 
services." 

"You've heard that I have gold," said Timon. 

"There was a report," said the painter, blushing; 
"but my friend and I did not come for that." 

"Good honest men!" jeered Timon. "All the 
same, you shall have plenty of gold if you will rid 
me of two villains." 

207 






> > 



"Name them," said his two visitors in one breath. 

"Both of you!" answered Timon. Giving the 
painter a whack with a big stick, he said, "Put that 
into your palette and make money out of it." Then 
he gave a whack to the poet, and said, "Make a 
poem out of that and get paid for it. There's gold 
for you." 

They hurriedly withdrew. 

Finally Timon was visited by two senators who, 
now that Athens was threatened by Alcibiades, de- 
sired to have on their side this bitter noble whose 
gold might help the foe. 

"Forget your injuries," said the first senator. 
"Athens offers you dignities whereby you may hon- 
orably live." 

"Athens confesses that your merit was overlooked, 
and wishes to atone, and more than atone, for her 
forgetfulness," said the second senator. 

"Worthy senators," replied Timon, in his grim 
way, "I am almost weeping; you touch me so! All 
I need are the eyes of a woman and the heart of 
a fool." 

But the senators were patriots. They believed 





«J 




that this bitter man could save Athens, and they 
would not quarrel with him. "Be our captain," 
they said, "and lead Athens against Alcibiades, who 
threatens to destroy her." 

"Let him destroy the Athenians too, for all I 
care," said Timon; and seeing an evil despair in his 
face, they left him. 

The senators returned to Athens, and soon after- 
wards trumpets were blown before its walls. Upon 
the walls they stood and listened to Alcibiades, who 
told them that wrong-doers should quake in their 
easy chairs. They looked at his confident army, and 
were convinced that Athens must yield if he as- 
saulted it, therefore they used the voice that strikes 
deeper than arrows. 

"These walls of ours were built by the hands of 
men who never wronged you, Alcibiades," said the 
first senator. 

"Enter," said the second senator, "and slay 
every tenth man, if your revenge needs human 
flesh." 

"Spare the cradle," said the first senator. 

"I ask only justice," said Alcibiades. "If you 

209 







> > 



admit my army, I will inflict the penalty of your 
own laws upon any soldier who breaks them.' 

At that moment a soldier approached Alcibiades, 
and said, "My noble general, Timon is dead." He 
handed Alcibiades a sheet of wax, saying, "He is 
buried by the sea, on the beach, and over his grave 
is a stone with letters on it which I cannot read, and 
therefore I have impressed them on wax." 

Alcibiades read from the sheet of wax this cou- 
plet — 

" Here lie I, Timon, who, alive, all living men did 
hate. 
Pass by and say your worst ; but pass, and stay 
not here your gait." 

"Dead, then, is noble Timon," said Alcibiades; 
and he entered Athens with an olive branch instead 
of a sword. 

So it was one of Timon's friends who was gen- 
erous in a greater matter than Timon's need ; yet 
are the sorrow and rage of Timon remembered as a 
warning lest another ingratitude should arise to turn 
love into hate. 



210 





at^^^ 





OTHELLO 

IOUR hundred years ago there lived in Venice 
an ensign named Iago, who hated his general, 
Othello, for not making him a lieutenant. Instead 
of Iago, who was strongly recommended, Othello 
had chosen Michael Cassio, whose smooth tongue 
had helped him to win the heart of Desdemona. 
Iago had a friend called Roderigo, who supplied 
him with money and felt he could not he happy un- 
less Desdemona was his wife. 

211 






Othello was a Moor, but of so dark a complex- 
ion that his enemies called him a Blackamoor. His 
life had been hard and exciting. He had been van- 
quished in battle and sold into slavery; and he had 
been a great traveler and seen men whose shoulders 
were higher than their heads. Brave as a lion, he 
had one great fault — jealousy. His love was a ter- 
rible selfishness. To love a woman meant with him 
to possess her as absolutely as he possessed some- 
thing that did not live and think. The story of 
Othello is a story of jealousy. 

One night Iago told Boderigo that Othello had 
carried off Desdemona without the knowledge of 
her father, Brabantio. He persuaded Roderigo to 
arouse Brabantio, and when that senator appeared 
Iago told him of Desdemona's elopement in the most 
unpleasant way. Though he was Othello's officer, 
he termed him a thief and a Barbary horse. 

Brabantio accused Othello before the Duke of 
Venice of using sorcery to fascinate his daughter, 
but Othello said that the only sorcery he used was 
his voice, which told Desdemona his adventures and 
hair-breadth escapes. Desdemona was led into the 

212 







council-chamber, and she explained how she could 
love Othello despite his almost black face by say- 
ing, "I saw Othello's visage in his mind." 

As Othello had 
married Desdemona, 
and she was glad to 
be his wife, there was 
no more to be said 
against him, especial- 
ly as the Duke wished 
him to go to Cyprus 
to defend it against 
the Turks. Othello 
was quite ready to 
go, and Desdemona, 
who pleaded to g o 
with him, was per- 
mitted to join him at 
Cyprus. 

Othello's feelings 
on landing in this is- 
land were intensely 
joyful. "Oh, my 





sweet," he said to Desdemona, who arrived with 
Iago, his wife, and Roderigo before him, "I hardly 
know what I say to you. I am in love with my own 
happiness." 

News coming presently that the Turkish fleet was 
out of action, he proclaimed a festival in Cyprus 
from five to eleven at night. 

Cassio was on duty in the Castle where Othello 
ruled Cyprus, so Iago decided to make the lieuten- 
ant drink too much. He had some difficulty, as 
Cassio knew that wine soon went to his head, but 
servants brought wine into the room where Cassio 
was, and Iago sang a drinking song, and so Cassio 
lifted a glass too often to the health of the general. 

When Cassio was inclined to be quarrelsome, Iago 
told Roderigo to say something unpleasant to him. 
Cassio cudgeled Roderigo, who ran into the pres- 
ence of Montano, the ex-governor. Montano civ- 
illy interceded for Roderigo, but received so rude 
an answer from Cassio that he said, "Come, come, 
you're drunk!" Cassio then wounded him, and Iago 
sent Roderigo out to scare the town with a cry of 
mutiny. 

214 




^^^»i^^^ 





^ > 



The uproar aroused Othello, who, on learning its 
cause, said, "Cassio, I love thee, but never more be 
officer of mine." 

On Cassio and Iago being alone together, the 
disgraced man moaned about his reputation. Iago 
said reputation and humbug were the same thing. 
"O God," exclaimed Cassio, without heeding him, 
"that men should put an enemy in their mouths to 
steal away their brains!" 

Iago advised him to beg Desdemona to ask Othello 
to pardon him. Cassio was pleased with the advice, 
and next morning made his request to Desdemona 
in the garden of the castle. She was kindness itself, 
and said, "Be merry, Cassio, for I would rather die 
than forsake your cause." 

Cassio at that moment saw Othello advancing 
with Iago, and retired hurriedly. 

Iago said, "I don't like that." 

"What did you say?" asked Othello, who felt that 
he had meant something unpleasant, but Iago pre- 
tended he had said nothing. "Was not that Cassio 
who went from my wife?" asked Othello, and Iago, 
who knew that it was Cassio and why it was Cassio, 







jn 



> > 



said, "I cannot think it was Cassio who stole away 
in that guilty manner." 

Desdemona told Othello that it was grief and 
humility which made Cassio retreat at his approach. 
She reminded him how Cassio had taken his part 
when she was still heart- free, and found fault with 
her Moorish lover. Othello was melted, and said, 
"I will deny thee nothing," but Desdemona told him 
that what she asked was as much for his good as 
dining. 

Desdemona left the garden, and Iago asked if it 
was really true that Cassio had known Desdemona 
before her marriage. 

"Yes," said Othello. 

"Indeed," said Iago, as though something that 
had mystified him was now very clear. 

"Is he not honest?" demanded Othello, and Iago 
repeated the adjective inquiringly, as though he were 
afraid to say "No." 

"What do you mean?" insisted Othello. 

To this Iago would only say the flat opposite of 
what he said to Cassio. He had told Cassio that 
reputation was humbug. To Othello he said, "Who 

216 






♦w 



«^^« 





mu^ 




steals my purse steals trash, but he who filches from 
me my good name ruins me." 

At this Othello almost leapt into the air, and Iago 
was so confident of his jealousy that he ventured to 
warn him against it. Yes, it was no other than 
Iago who called jealousy "the green-eyed monster 
which doth mock the meat it feeds on." 

Iago having given jealousy one blow, proceeded 
to feed it with the remark that Desdemona deceived 
her father when she eloped with Othello. "If she 
deceived him, why not you?" was his meaning. 

Presently Desdemona re-entered to tell Othello 
that dinner was ready. She saw that he was ill at 
ease. He explained it by a pain in his forehead. 
Desdemona then produced a handkerchief, which 
Othello had given her. A prophetess, two hundred 
years old, had made this handkerchief from the silk 
of sacred silkworms, dyed it in a liquid prepared 
from the hearts of maidens, and embroidered it with 
strawberries. Gentle Desdemona thought of it 
simply as a cool, soft thing for a throbbing brow; 
she knew of no spell upon it that would work de- 
struction for her who lost it. "Let me tie it round 

217 







your head," she said to Othello; "you will be well 
in an hour." But Othello pettishly said it was too 
small, and let it fall. Desdemona and he then went 
indoors to dinner, and Emilia picked up the hand- 
kerchief which 
Iago had often 
asked her to 
steal. 

She was look- 
ing at it when 
Iago came in. 
After a few 
words about it 
he snatched it 
from her, and 
bade her leave 
him. 

In the garden 
he was joined 
by Othello, who seemed hungry for the worst lies he 
could offer. He therefore told Othello that he had 
seen Cassio wipe his mouth with a handkerchief, 
which, because it was spotted with strawberries, he 

218 




The Drink of Wine. 






♦m 




«^^3§ 




^ > 




guessed to be one that Othello had given his wife. 

The unhappy Moor went mad with fury, and 
Iago bade the heavens witness that he devoted his 
hand and heart and brain to Othello's service. "I 
accept your love," said Othello. "Within three days 
let me hear that Cassio is dead." 

Iago's next step was to leave Desdemona's hand- 
kerchief in Cassio's room. Cassio saw it, and knew 
it was not his, but he liked the strawberry pattern 
on it, and he gave it to his sweetheart Bianca and 
asked her to copy it for him. 

Iago's next move was to induce Othello, who had 
been bullying Desdemona about the handkerchief, 
to play the eavesdropper to a conversation between 
Cassio and himself. His intention was to talk about 
Cassio's sweetheart, and allow Othello to suppose 
that the lady spoken of was Desdemona. 

"How are you, lieutenant?" asked Iago when Cas- 
sio appeared. 

"The worse for being called what I am not," re- 
plied Cassio, gloomily. 

"Keep on reminding Desdemona, and you'll soon 
be restored," said Iago, adding, in a tone too low 

219 






fe? 




> > 



for Othello to hear, "If Bianca could set the matter 
right, how quickly it would mend!" 

"Alas! poor rogue," said Cassio, "I really think 
she loves me," and like the talkative coxcomb he 
was, Cassio was led on to boast of Bianca's fond- 
ness for him, while Othello imagined, with choked 
rage, that he prattled of Desdemona, and thought, 
"I see your nose, Cassio, but not the dog I shall 
throw it to." 

Othello was still spying when Bianca entered, 
boiling over with the idea that Cassio, whom she 
considered her property, had asked her to copy the 
embroidery on the handkerchief of a new sweet- 
heart. She tossed him the handkerchief with scorn- 
ful words, and Cassio departed with her. 

Othello had seen Bianca, who was in station lower, 
in beauty and speech inferior far, to Desdemona, 
and he began in spite of himself to praise his wife 
to the villain before him. He praised her skill with 
the needle, her voice that could "sing the savageness 
out of a bear," her wit, her sweetness, the fairness of 
her skin. Every time he praised her Iago said some- 
thing that made him remember his anger and utter 





it foully, and yet he must needs praise her, and say, 
"The pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!" 

There was never in all Iago's villainy one moment 
of wavering. If there had been he might have wav- 
ered then. 

"Strangle her," he said; and "Good, good!" said 
his miserable dupe. 

The pair were still talking murder when Desde- 
mona appeared with a relative of Desdemona's fa- 
ther, called Lodovico, who bore a letter for Othello 
from the Duke of Venice. The letter recalled 
Othello from Cyprus, and gave the governorship to 
Cassio. 

Luckless Desdemona seized this unhappy moment 
to urge once more the suit of Cassio. 

"Fire and brimstone!" shouted Othello. 

"It may be the letter agitates him," explained 
Lodovico to Desdemona, and he told her what it 
contained. 

"I am glad," said Desdemona. It was the first 
bitter speech that Othello's unkindness had wrung 
out of her. 

"I am glad to see you lose your temper," said 
Othello. 221 





"Why, sweet Othello?" she asked, sarcastically; 
and Othello slapped her face. 

Now was the time for Desdemona to have saved 
nf] her life by separation, but she knew not her peril — 




> > 



u 




Cassio Gives Bianca the Handkerchief. 

only that her love was wounded to the core. "I 
have not deserved this," she said, and the tears rolled 
slowly down her face. 

222 







u 



Lodovico was shocked and disgusted. "My lord," 
he said, "this would not be believed in Venice. 
Make her amends;" but, like a madman talking in 
his nightmare, Othello poured out his foul thought 
in ugly speech, and roared, "Out of my sight!" 

"I will not stay to offend you," said his wife, but 
she lingered even in going, and only when he 
shouted "Avaunt!" did she leave her husband and 
his guests. 

Othello then invited Lodovico to supper, adding, 
"You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and mon- 
keys!" Without waiting for a reply he left the 
company. 

Distinguished visitors detest being obliged to look 
on at family quarrels, and dislike being called either 
goats or monkeys, and Lodovico asked Iago for an 
explanation. 

True to himself, Iago, in a round-about way, said 
that Othello was worse than he seemed, and advised 
them to study his behavior and save him from the 
discomfort of answering any more questions. 

He proceeded to tell Roderigo to murder Cassio. 
Roderigo was out of tune with his friend. He had 

228 







given Iago quantities of jewels for Desdemona with- 
out effect; Desdemona had seen none of them, for 
Iago was a thief. 

Iago smoothed him with a lie, and when Cassio 
was leaving Bianca's house, Roderigo wounded him, 
and was wounded in return. Cassio shouted, and 
Lodovico and a friend came running up. Cassio 
pointed out Roderigo as his assailant, and Iago, 
hoping to rid himself of an inconvenient friend, 
called him "Villain!" and stabbed him, but not to 
death. 

At the Castle, Desdemona was in a sad mood. 
She told Emilia that she must leave her; her hus- 
band wished it. "Dismiss me!" exclaimed Emilia. 
"It was his bidding," said Desdemona; "we must not 
displease him now." 

She sang a song which a girl had sung whose 
lover had been base to her — a song of a maiden cry- 
ing by that tree whose boughs droop as though it 
weeps, and she went to bed and slept. 

She woke with her husband's wild eyes upon her. 
"Have you prayed to-night?" he asked; and he told 
this blameless and sweet woman to ask God's par- 

224 






«^^m 






> > 



K 



don for any sin she might have on her conscience. 
"I would not kill thy soul," he said. 

He told her that Cassio had confessed, but she 




Desdemona Weeping. 

knew Cassio had nought to confess that concerned 
her. She said that Cassio could not say anything 
that would damage her. Othello said his mouth was 
stopped. 

225 







u 



Then Desdemona wept, but with violent words, 
in spite of all her pleading, Othello pressed upon her 
throat and mortally hurt her. 

Then with boding heart came Emilia, and be- 
sought entrance at the door, and Othello unlocked 
it, and a voice came from the bed saying, "A guilt- 
less death I die." 

"Who did it?" cried Emilia; and the voice said, 
"Nobody— I myself. Farewell!" 

'"Twas I that killed her," said Othello. 

He poured out his evidence by that sad bed to the 
people who came running in, Iago among them ; but 
when he spoke of the handkerchief, Emilia told the 
truth. 

And Othello knew. "Are there no stones in 
heaven but thunderbolts?" he exclaimed, and ran at 
Iago, who gave Emilia her death-blow and fled. 

But they brought him back, and the death that 
came to him later on was a relief from torture. 

They would have taken Othello back to Venice to 
try him there, but he escaped them on his sword. 
"A word or two before you go," he said to the Vene- 
tians in the chamber. "Speak of me as I was — 

226 







no better, no worse. Say I cast away the pearl of 
pearls, and wept with these hard eyes ; and say that, 
when in Aleppo years ago I saw a Turk beating a 
Venetian, I took him by the throat and smote him 
thus." 

With his own hand he stabbed himself to the 
heart; and ere he died his lips touched the face of 
Desdemona with despairing love. 





227 



^^g^g^gg 






> > 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 

fTlHERE lived in Padua a gentleman named 
•*- Baptista, who had two fair daughters. The 
eldest, Katharine, was so very cross and ill-tem- 
pered, and unmannerly, that no one ever dreamed 
of marrying her, while her siter, Bianca, was so 
sweet and pretty, and pleasant-spoken, that more 
than one suitor asked her father for her hand. But 
Baptista said the elder daughter must marry first. 

So Bianca's suitors decided among themselves to 
try and get some one to marry Katharine — and then 
the father could at least be got to listen to their suit 
for Bianca. 

A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was 
the one they thought of, and, half in jest, they asked 
him if he would marry Katharine, the disagreeable 
scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was 
just the sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were 

228 






^^^Hi 





PETRUCHIO AND KATHERINE 





> > 




handsome and rich, he himself would undertake 
soon to make her good-tempered. 

Petruchio began by asking Baptista's permission 
to pay court to his gentle daughter Katharine — 
and Baptista 
was obliged to 
own that she 
was anything 
but gentle. 
And just then 
her music mas- 
ter rushed in, 
complaining 
that the naugh- 
ty girl had 
broken her lute 
over his head, 
because he told 
her she was not 
playing correctly. 

"Never mind," said Petruchio, "I love her bet- 
ter than ever, and long to have some chat with 
her." 

229 





The Music Master. 



^^^^ti 








When Katharine came, he said, "Good-morrow, 
Kate — for that, I hear, is your name." 

"You've only heard half," said Katharine, rudely. 

"Oh, no," said Petruchio, "they call you plain 
Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the 
shrew, and so, hearing your mildness praised in 
every town, and your beauty too, I ask you for my 
wife." 

"Your wife!" cried Kate. "Never!" She said 
some extremely disagreeable things to him, and, I 
am sorry to say, ended by boxing his ears. 

"If you do that again, I'll cuff you," he said 
quietly; and still protested, with many compliments, 
that he would marry none but her. 

When Baptista came back, he asked at once — 

"How speed you with my daughter?" 

"How should I speed but well," replied Petru- 
chio— "how, but well?" 

"How now, daughter Katharine?" the father 
went on. 

"I don't think," said Katharine, angrily, "you are 
acting a father's part in wishing me to marry this 
mad-cap ruffian." 








"Ah!" said Petruchio, "you and all the world 
would talk amiss of her. You should see how kind 
she is to me when we are alone. In short, I will go 
off to Venice to buy fine things for our wedding — 
for — kiss me, Kate! we will be married on Sunday." 

With that, Katharine flounced out of the room 
by one door in a violent temper, and he, laughing, 
went out by the other. But whether she fell in love 
with Petruchio, or whether she was only glad to 
meet a man who was not afraid of her, or whether 
she was flattered that, in spite of her rough words 
and spiteful usage, he still desired her for his wife — 
she did indeed marry him on Sunday, as he had 
sworn she should. 

To vex and humble Katharine's naughty, proud 
spirit, he was late at the wedding, and when he came, 
came wearing such shabby clothes that she was 
ashamed to be seen with him. His servant was 
dressed in the same shabby way, and the horses they 
rode were the sport of everyone they passed. 

And, after the marriage, when should have been 
the wedding breakfast, Petruchio carried his wife 
away, not allowing her to eat or drink — saying that 

231 





X^^^ 




And his manner was so violent, and he behaved 
all through his wedding in so mad and dreadful a 
manner, that Katharine trembled and went with 





Katharine Boxes the Servant's Ears. 

him. He mounted her on a stumbling, lean, old 
horse, and they journeyed by rough muddy ways to 
Petruchio's house, he scolding and snarling all the 
way. 

232 







> > 



She was terribly tired when she reached her new 
home, but Petruchio was determined that she should 
neither eat nor sleep that night, for he had made 
up his mind to teach his bad-tempered wife a lesson 
she would never forget. 

So he welcomed her kindly to his house, but when 
supper was served he found fault with everything 
— the meat was burnt, he said, and ill-served, and 
he loved her far too much to let her eat anything 
but the best. At last Katharine, tired out with her 
journey, went supperless to bed. Then her hus- 
band, still telling her how he loved her, and how 
anxious he was that she should sleep well, pulled 
her bed to pieces, throwing the pillows and bed- 
clothes on the floor, so that she could not go to bed 
at all, and still kept growling and scolding at the 
servants so that Kate might see how unbeautiful a 
thing ill-temper was. 

The next day, too, Katharine's food was all found 
fault with, and caught away before she could touch 
a mouthful, and she was sick and giddy for want 
of sleep. Then she said to one of the servants — 

"I pray thee go and get me some repast. I care 
not what." 






> N 



"What say you to a neat's foot?" said the serv- 
ant. 

Katharine said "Yes," eagerly; but the servant, 
who was in his master's secret, said he feared it was 
not good for hasty-tempered people. Would she 
like tripe? 

"Bring it me," said Katharine. 

"I don't think that is good for hasty-tempered 
people," said the servant. "What do you say to a 
dish of beef and mustard?" 

"I love it," said Kate. 

"But mustard is too hot." 

"Why, then, the beef, and let the mustard go," 
cried Katharine, who was getting hungrier and 
hungrier. 

"No," said the servant, "you must have the mus- 
tard, or you get no beef from me." 

"Then," cried Katharine, losing patience, "let it 
be both, or one, or anything thou wilt." 

"Why, then," said the servant, "the mustard with- 
out the beef!" 

Then Katharine saw he was making fun of her, 
and boxed his ears. 

234 




BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROAV Sf\AKESPEARE -=- r- 





> > 



Just then Petruchio brought her some food — but 
she had scarcely begun to satisfy her hunger, before 
he called for the tailor to bring her new clothes, and 
the table was cleared, leaving her still hungry. 
Katharine was pleased with the pretty new dress 
and cap that the tailor had made for her, but Petru- 




Petruchio Finds Fault with the Supper. 

chio found fault with everything, flung the cap and 
gown on the floor vowing his dear wife should not 
wear any such foolish things. 

"I will have them," cried Katharine. "All gen- 
tlewomen wear such caps as these — " 

"When you are gentle you shall have one too," 
he answered, "and not till then." When he had 

235 






driven away the tailor with angry words — but pri- 
vately asking his friend to see him paid — Petruchio 
said — 

"Come, Kate, let's go to your father's, shabby as 
we are, for as the sun breaks through the darkest 
clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit. It is 
about seven o'clock now. We shall easily get there 
by dinner-time." 

"It's nearly two," said Kate, but civilly enough, 
for she had grown to see that she could not bully 
her husband, as she had done her father and her sis- 
ter; "it's nearly two, and it will be supper-time be- 
fore we get there." 

"It shall be seven," said Petruchio, obstinately, 
"before I start. Why, whatever I say or do, or 
think, you do nothing but contradict. I won't go 
to-day, and before I do go, it shall be what o'clock 
I say it is." 

At last they started for her father's house. 
"Look at the moon," said he. 

"It's the sun," said Katharine, and indeed it 
was. 

"I say it is the moon. Contradicting again! It 

236 







it 



shall be sun or moon, or whatever I choose, or I 
won't take you to your father's." 

Then Katharine gave in, once and for all. 
"What you will have it named," she said, "it is, and 
so it shall be so for Katharine." And so it was, 
for from that moment Katharine felt that she had 
met her master, and never again showed her naughty 
tempers to him, or anyone else. 

So they journeyed on to Baptista's house, and 
arriving there, they found all folks keeping Bian- 
ca's wedding feast, and that of another newly mar- 
ried couple, Hortensio and his wife. They were 
made welcome, and sat down to the feast, and all 
was merry, save that Hortensio's wife, seeing Kath- 
arine subdued to her husband, thought she could 
safely say many disagreeable things, that in the old 
days, when Katharine was free and froward, she 
would not have dared to say. But Katharine an- 
swered with such spirit and such moderation, that 
she turned the laugh against the new bride. 

After dinner, when the ladies had retired, 
Baptista joined in a laugh against Petruchio, say- 
ing- 

237 




z 





> > 



"Now in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you 
have got the veriest shrew of all." 

"You are wrong," said Petruchio, "let me prove 
it to you. Each of us shall send a message to his 
wife, desiring her to come to him, and the one whose 
wife comes most readily shall win a wager which we 
will agree on." 

The others said yes readily enough, for each 
thought his own wife the most dutiful, and each 
thought he was quite sure to win the wager. 

They proposed a wager of twenty crowns. 

"Twenty crowns," said Petruchio, "I'll venture 
so much on my hawk or hound, but twenty times as 
much upon my wife." 

"A hundred then," cried Lucentio, Bianca's hus- 
band. 

"Content," cried the others. 

Then Lucentio sent a message to the fair Bianca 
bidding her to come to him. And Baptista said he 
was certain his daughter would come. But the serv- 
ant coming back, said — 

"Sir, my mistress is busy, and she cannot come." 

"There's an answer for you," said Petruchio. 

238 







"You may think yourself fortunate if your wife 
does not send you a worse." 

"I hope, better," Petruchio answered. Then 
Hortensio said — 

"Go and entreat my wife to come to me at once." 

"Oh — if you entreat her," said Petruchio. 

"I am afraid," answered Hortensio, sharply, "do 
what you can, yours will not be entreated." 

But now the servant came in, and said — 

"She says you are playing some jest, she will not 
come." 

"Better and better," cried Petruchio; "now go to 
your mistress and say I command her to come to 
me." 

They all began to laugh, saying they knew what 
her answer would be, and that she would not come. 

Then suddenly Baptista cried — 

"Here comes Katharine!" And sure enough — 
there she was. 

"What do you wish, sir?" she asked her husband. 

"Where are your sister and Hortensio's wife?" 

"Talking by the parlor fire." 

"Fetch them here." 

239 






When she was gone to fetch them, Lucentio 
said — 

"Here is a wonder!" 

"I wonder what it means," said Hortensio. 

"It means peace," said Petruchio, "and love, and 
quiet life." 

"Well," said Baptista, "you have won the wager, 
and I will add another twenty thousand crowns to 
her dowry — another dowry for another daughter — 
for she is as changed as if she were someone else." 

So Petruchio won his wager, and had in Kath- 
arine always a loving wife and true, and now he 
had broken her proud and angry spirit he loved her 
well, and there was nothing ever but love between 
those two. And so they lived happy ever after- 
wards. 





vs 





MEASURE FOR MEASURE 

"]% ^ORE centuries ago than I care to say, the 
****** people of Vienna were governed too mildly. 
The reason was that the reigning Duke Vicentio 
was excessively good-natured, and disliked to see 
offenders made unhappy. 

The consequence was that the number of ill-be- 
haved persons in Vienna was enough to make the 
Duke shake his head in sorrow when his chief secre- 
tary showed him it at the end of a list. He de- 
cided, therefore, that wrongdoers must be punished. 
But popularity was dear to him. He knew that, 
if he were suddenly strict after being lax, he would 
cause people to call him a tyrant. For this reason 
he told his Privy Council that he must go to Poland 
on important business of state. "I have chosen 
Angelo to rule in my absence," said he. 

Now this Angelo, although he appeared to be 
noble, was really a mean man. He had promised 

241 







to marry a girl called Mariana, and now would have 
nothing to say to her, because her dowry had been 
lost. So poor Mariana lived forlornly, waiting 
every day for the footstep of her stingy lover, and 
loving him still. 

Having appointed Angelo his deputy, the Duke 
went to a friar called Thomas and asked him for a 
friar's dress and instruction in the art of giving re- 
ligious counsel, for he did not intend to go to Po- 
land, but to stay at home and see how Angelo gov- 
erned. 

Angelo had not been a day in office when he con- 
demned to death a young man named Claudio for 
an act of rash selfishness which nowadays would 
only be punished by severe reproof. 

Claudio had a queer friend called Lucio, and 
Lucio saw a chance of freedom for Claudio if Clau- 
dio 's beautiful sister Isabella would plead with 
Angelo. 

Isabella was at that time living in a nunnery. 
Nobody had won her heart, and she thought she 
would like to become a sister, or nun. 

Meanwhile Claudio did not lack an advocate. 

242 






\ > 



An ancient lord, Escalus, was for leniency. "Let 
us cut a little, but not kill," he said. "This gentle- 
man had a most noble father." 

Angelo was unmoved. "If twelve men find me 
guilty, I ask no more mercy than is in the law." 

Angelo then ordered the Provost to see that 
Claudio was executed at nine the next morning. 

After the issue of this order Angelo was told 
that the sister of the condemned man desired to see 
him. 

"Admit her," said Angelo. 

On entering with Lucio, the beautiful girl said, 
"I am a woeful suitor to your Honor." 

"Well?" said Angelo. 

She colored at his chill monosyllable and the as- 
cending red increased the beauty of her face. "I 
have a brother who is condemned to die," she con- 
tinued. "Condemn the fault, I pray you, and 
spare my brother." 

"Every fault," said Angelo, "is condemned be- 
fore it is committed. A fault cannot suffer. Jus- 
tice would be void if the committer of a fault went 
free." 

243 









> > 



u 



She would have left the court if Lucio had not 
whispered to her, "You are too cold; you could not 
speak more tamely if you wanted a pin." 

So Isabella attacked Angelo again, and when he 

said, "I will not 
pardon him," she 
was not discour- 
aged, and when he 
said, "He's sen- 
tenced ; 'tis too 
late," she returned 
to the assult. But 
all her righting 
was with reasons, 
and with reasons 
she could not pre- 
M vail over the Dep- 

The Duke in the Fkiae's Dkess. uty. 

She told him that nothing becomes power like 
mercy. She told him that humanity receives and 
requires mercy from Heaven, that it was good to 
have gigantic strength, and bad to use it like a 
giant. She told him that lightning rives the oak 

244 






♦W 



J^^^» 






and spares the myrtle. She bade him look for fault 
in his own breast, and if he found one, to refrain 
from making it an argument against her brother's 
life. 

Angelo found a fault in his breast at that mo- 
ment. He loved Isabella's beauty, and was tempted 
to do for her beauty what he would not do for the 
love of man. 

He appeared to relent, for he said, "Come to me 
to-morrow before noon." 

She had, at any rate, succeeded in prolonging her 
brother's life for a few hours. 

In her absence Angelo's conscience rebuked him 
for trifling with his judicial duty. 

When Isabella called on him the second time, he 
said, "Your brother cannot live." 

Isabella was painfully astonished, but all she said 
was, "Even so. Heaven keep your Honor." 

But as she turned to go, Angelo felt that his duty 
and honor were slight in comparison with the loss 
of her. 

"Give me your love," he said, "and Claudio shall 
be freed." 

245 




^^^M 





"Before I would marry you, he should die if he 
had twenty heads to lay upon the block," said Isa- 
bella, for she saw then that he was not the just man 
he pretended to be. 

So she went to her brother in prison, to inform 
him that he must die. At first he was boastful, 
and promised to hug the darkness of death. But 
when he clearly understood that his sister could buy 
his life by marrying Angelo, he felt his life more 
valuable than her happiness, and he exclaimed, 
"Sweet sister, let me live." 

"O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!" she 
cried. 

At this moment the Duke came forward, in the 
habit of a friar, to request some speech with 
Isabella. He called himself Friar Lodowick. 

The Duke then told her that Angelo was affi- 
anced to Mariana, whose love-story he related. He 
then asked her to consider this plan. Let Mariana, 
in the dress of Isabella, go closely veiled to Angelo, 
and say, in a voice resembling Isabella's, that if 
Claudio were spared she would marry him. Let 
her take the ring from Angelo's little finger, that 




246 




vs 





it might be afterwards proved that his visitor was 
Mariana. 

Isabella had, of course, a great respect for friars, 
who are as nearly like nuns as men can be. She 
agreed, therefore, to the Duke's plan. They were 
to meet again at the moated grange, Mariana's 
house. 




Isabella Pleads with Angelo. 

In the street the Duke saw Lucio, who, seeing a 
man dressed like a friar, called out, "What news 
of the Duke, friar?" "I have none," said the Duke. 

Lucio then told the Duke some stories about 
Angelo. Then he told one about the Duke. The 

247 









Duke contradicted him. Lucio was provoked, and 
called the Duke "a shallow, ignorant fool," though 
he pretended to love him. "The Duke shall know 
you better if I live to report you," said the Duke, 
grimly. Then he asked Escalus, whom he saw in 
the street, what he thought of his ducal master. 
Escalus, who imagined he was speaking to a friar, 
replied, "The Duke is a very temperate gentleman, 
who prefers to see another merry to being merry 
himself." 

The Duke then proceeded to call on Mariana. 

Isabella arrived immediately afterwards, and the 
Duke introduced the two girls to one another, both 
of whom thought he was a friar. They went 
into a chamber apart from him to discuss the saving 
of Claudio, and while they talked in low and earnest 
tones, the Duke looked out of the window and saw 
the broken sheds and flower-beds black with moss, 
which betrayed Mariana's indifference to her coun- 
try dwelling. Some women would have beautified 
their garden: not she. She was for the town; she 
neglected the joys of the country. He was sure 
that Angelo would not make her unhappier. 

248 









\ > 



"We are agreed, father," said Isabella, as she 
returned with Mariana. 

So Angelo was deceived by the girl whom he had 
dismissed from his love, and put on her finger a 
ring he wore, in which was set a milky stone which 
flashed in the light with secret colors. 

Hearing of her success, the Duke went next day 
to the prison prepared to learn that an order had 
arrived for Claudio's release. It had not, how- 
ever, but a letter was handed to the Provost while 
he waited. His amazement was great when the 
Provost read aloud these words, "Whatsoever you 
may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed 
by four of the clock. Let me have his head sent me 
by five." 

But the Duke said to the Provost, "You must 
show the Deputy another head," and he held out a 
letter and a signet. "Here," he said, "are the 
hand and seal of the Duke. He is to return, I tell 
you, and Angelo knows it not. Give Angelo an- 
other head." 

The Provost thought, "This friar speaks with 
power. I know the Duke's signet and I know his 
hand." 249 






^^^M 



£S? 




tt 



He said at length, "A man died in prison this 
morning, a pirate of the age of Claudio, with a 
beard of his color. I will show his head." 

The pirate's head was duly shown to Angelo, who 
was deceived by its resemblance to Claudio 's. 

The Duke's return was so popular that the citi- 
zens removed the city gates from their hinges to 
assist his entry into Vienna. Angelo and Escalus 
duly presented themselves, and were profusely 
praised for their conduct of affairs in the Duke's 
absence. 

It was, therefore, the more unpleasant for An- 
gelo when Isabella, passionately angered by his 
treachery, knelt before the Duke, and cried for jus- 
tice. 

When her story was told, the Duke cried, "To 
prison with her for a slanderer of our right hand! 
But stay, who persuaded you to come here?" 

"Friar Lodowick," said she. 

"Who knows him?" inquired the Duke. 

"I do, my lord," replied Lucio. "I beat him be- 
cause he spake against your Grace." 

A friar called Peter here said, "Friar Lodowick 
is a holy man." 







v^J 





Isabella was removed by an officer, and Mariana 
came forward. She took off her veil, and said to 
Angelo, "This is the face you once swore was worth 
looking on." 

Bravely he faced her as she put out her hand and 
said, "This is the hand which wears the ring you 
thought to give another." 

"I know the woman," said Angelo. "Once there 
was talk of marriage between us, but I found her 
frivolous." 

Mariana here burst out that they were affianced 
by the strongest vows. Angelo replied by asking 
the Duke to insist on the production of Friar Lodo- 
wick. 

"He shall appear," promised the Duke, and bade 
Escalus examine the missing witness thoroughly 
while he' was elsewhere. 

Presently the Duke re-appeared in the character 
of Friar Lodowick, and accompanied by Isabella 
and the Provost. He was not so much examined as 
abused and threatened by Escalus. Lucio asked 
him to deny, if he dared, that he called the Duke a 
fool and a coward, and had had his nose pulled for 
his impudence. n*\ 




m^gx 





"To prison with him!" shouted Escalus, but as 
hands were laid upon him, the Duke pulled off his 
friar's hood, and was a Duke before them all. 

"Now," he said to Angelo, "if you have any im- 
pudence that can yet serve you, work it for all it's 
worth." 

"Immediate sentence and death is all I beg," was 
the reply. 

"Were you affianced to Mariana?" asked the 
Duke. 

"I was," said Angelo. 

"Then marry her instantly," said his master. 
"Marry them," he said to Friar Peter, "and return 
with them here." 

"Come hither, Isabel," said the Duke, in tender 
tones. "Your friar is now your Prince, and grieves 
he was too late to save your brother;" but well the 
roguish Duke knew he had saved him. 

"O pardon me," she cried, "that I employed my 
Sovereign in my trouble." 

"You are pardoned," he said, gaily. 

At that moment Angelo and his wife re-entered. 
"And now, Angelo," said the Duke, gravely, "we 

252 






XI 



condemn thee to the block on which Claudio laid his 
head!" 

"O my most gracious lord," cried Mariana, "mock 
me not!" 

"You shall buy a better husband," said the Duke. 





"Your Friar is Now Your Prince. 5 



O my dear lord," said she, "I crave no better 



Isabella nobly added her prayer to Mariana's, but 
the Duke feigned inflexibility. 

253 



«^^M 









> > 



"Provost," he said, "how came it that Claudio was 
executed at an unusual hour?" 

Afraid to confess the lie he had imposed upon 
Angelo, the Provost said, "I had a private mes- 
sage." 

"You are discharged from 'your office," said the 
Duke. The Provost then departed. Angelo said, 
"I am sorry to have caused such sorrow. I prefer 
death to mercy." Soon there was a motion in the 
crowd. The Provost re-appeared with Claudio. 
Like a big child the Provost said, "I saved this man; 
he is like Claudio." The Duke was amused, and 
said to Isabella, "I pardon him because he is like 
your brother. He is like my brother, too, if you, 
dear Isabel, will be mine." 

She was his with a smile, and the Duke forgave 
Angelo, and promoted the Provost. 

Lucio he condemned to marry a stout woman with 
a bitter tongue. 







> > 



/^~\NLY one of them was really a gentleman, as 
^"^^ you will discover later. Their names were 
Valentine and Proteus. They were friends, and 
lived at Verona, a town in northern Italy. Valen- 
tine was happy in his name because it was that of 
the patron saint of lovers ; it is hard for a Valentine 
to be fickle or mean. Proteus was unhappy in his 
name, because it was that of a famous shape- 
changer, and therefore it encouraged him to be a 
lover at one time and a traitor at another. 

One day, Valentine told his friend that he was 
going to Milan. "I'm not in love like you," said 
he, "and therefore I don't want to stay at home." 

Proteus was in love with a beautiful yellow-haired 
girl called Julia, who was rich, and had no one to 
order her about. He was, however, sorry to part 
from Valentine, and he said, "If ever you are in 






danger tell me, and I will pray for you." Valen- 
tine then went to Milan with a servant called Speed, 
and at Milan he fell in love with the Duke of Milan's 
daughter, Silvia. 

When Proteus and Valentine parted Julia had 
not acknowledged that she loved Proteus. Indeed, 
she had actually torn up one of his letters in the 
presence of her maid, Lucetta. Lucetta, however, 
was no simpleton, for when she saw the pieces she 
said to herself, "All she wants is to be annoyed by 
another letter." Indeed, no sooner had Lucetta left 
her alone than Julia repented of her tearing, and 
placed between her dress and her heart the torn piece 
of paper on which Proteus had signed his name. 
So by tearing a letter written by Proteus she discov- 
ered that she loved him. Then, like a brave, sweet 
girl, she wrote to Proteus, "Be patient, and you shall 
marry me." 

Delighted with these words Proteus walked about, 
flourishing Julia's letter and talking to himself. 

"What have you got there?" asked his father, An- 
tonio. 

"A letter from Valentine," fibbed Proteus. 

256 







u 



"Let me read it," said Antonio. 

"There is no news," said deceitful Proteus; "he 
only says that he is very happy, and the Duke of 
Milan is kind to him, and that he wishes I were with 
him." 

This fib had the effect of making Antonio think 
that his son should go to Milan and enjoy the favors 
in which Valentine basked. "You must go to-mor- 
row," he decreed. Proteus was dismayed. "Give 
me time to get my outfit ready." He was met with 
the promise, "What you need shall be sent after 

you." 

It grieved Julia to part from her lover before 
their engagement was two days' old. She gave him 
a ring, and said, "Keep this for my sake," and he 
gave her a ring, and they kissed like two who intend 
to be true till death. Then Proteus departed for 
Milan. 

Meanwhile Valentine was amusing Silvia, whose 
grey eyes, laughing at him under auburn hair, had 
drowned him in love. One day she told him that 
she wanted to write a pretty letter to a gentleman 
whom she thought well of, but had no time: would 

257 




^^^m 





y 



he write it? Very much did Valentine dislike writ- 
ing that letter, but he did write it, and gave it to her 
coldly. "Take it back," she said; "you did it un- 
willingly." 




Valentine Whites a Letter for Silvia. 

"Madam," he said, "it was difficult to write such 
a letter for you." 

"Take it back," she commanded; "you did not 
write tenderly enough." 

Valentine was left with the letter, and condemned 

258 










to write another; but his servant Speed saw that, 
in effect, the Lady Silvia had allowed Valentine to 
write for her a love-letter to Valentine's own self. 
"The joke," he said, "is as invisible as a weather- 
cock on a steeple." He meant that it was very 
plain; and he went on 
to say exactly what it 
was: "If master will 
write her love-letters, 
he must answer them." 
On the arrival of 
Proteus, he was intro- 
duced by Valentine to 
Silvia and afterwards, ^ 
when they were alone, 
Valentine asked Pro- 
teus how his love for 

Julia Was prospering. Silvia Reading the Letter. 

"Why," said Proteus, "you used to get wearied 
when I spoke of her." 

"Aye," confessed Valentine, "but it's different 
now. I can eat and drink all day with nothing but 
love on my plate and love in my cup." 

259 




«^^ui 





: You idolize Silvia," said Proteus. 
'She is divine," said Valentine. 

"Come, come!" remonstrated Proteus. 

"Well, if she's not divine," said Valentine, "she 
is the queen of all women on earth." 

"Except Julia," said Proteus. 

"Dear boy," said Valentine, "Julia is not ex- 
cepted; but I will grant that she alone is worthy to 
bear my lady's train." 

"Your bragging astounds me," said Proteus. 

But he had seen Silvia, and he felt suddenly that 
the yellow-haired Julia was black in comparison. 
He became in thought a villain without delay, and 
said to himself what he had never said before — "I 
to myself am dearer than my friend." 

It would have been convenient for Valentine if 
Proteus had changed, by the power of the god whose 
name he bore, the shape of his body at the evil mo- 
ment when he despised Julia in admiring Silvia. 
But his body did not change; his smile was still af- 
fectionate, and Valentine confided to him the great 
secret that Silvia had now promised to run away 
with him. "In the pocket of this cloak," said Val- 

260 








entine, "I have a silken rope ladder, with hooks 
which will clasp the window-bar of her room." 

Proteus knew the reason why Silvia and her lover 
were bent on flight. The Duke intended her to wed 
Sir Thurio, a gentlemanly noodle for whom she did 
not care a straw. 

Proteus thought that if he could get rid of Valen- 
tine he might make Silvia fond of him, especially if 
the Duke insisted on her enduring Sir Thurio's tire- 
some chatter. He therefore went to the Duke, and 
said, "Duty before friendship! It grieves me to 
thwart my friend Valentine, but your Grace should 
know that he intends to-night to elope with your 
Grace's daughter." He begged the Duke not to 
tell Valentine the giver of this information, and the 
Duke assured him that his name would not be di- 
vulged. 

Early that evening the Duke summoned Valen- 
tine, who came to him wearing a large cloak with a 
bulging pocket. 

"You know," said the Duke, "my desire to marry 
my daughter to Sir Thurio?" 

"I do," replied Valentine. "He is virtuous and 

261 




^^^» 





> > 



generous, as befits a man so honored in your Grace's 
thoughts." 

"Nevertheless she dislikes him," said the Duke. 
"She is a peevish, proud, disobedient girl, and I 
should be sorry to leave her a penny. I intend, 
therefore, to marry again." 

Valentine bowed. 

"I hardly know how the young people of to-day 
make love," continued the Duke, "and I thought 
that you would be just the man to teach me how to 
win the lady of my choice." 

"Jewels have been known to plead rather well," 
said Valentine. 

"I have tried them," said the Duke. 

"The habit of liking the giver may grow if your 
Grace gives her some more." 

"The chief difficulty," pursued the Duke, "is this. 
The lady is promised to a young gentleman, and it 
is hard to have a word with her. She is, in fact, 
locked up." 

"Then your Grace should propose an elopement," 
said Valentine. "Try a rope ladder." 

"But how should I carry it?" asked the Duke. 

262 






A rope ladder is light," said Valentine; "y° u can 
carry it in a cloak." 
"Like yours?" 



tea 





The Serenade. 



"Yes, your Grace." 

"Then yours will do. Kindly lend it to me, 

263 





s 




X > 




• Valentine had talked himself into a trap. He 
could not refuse to lend his cloak, and when the 
Duke had donned it, his Grace drew from the pocket 
a sealed missive addressed to Silvia. He coolly 
opened it, and read these words: "Silvia, you shall 
be free to-night." 

"Indeed," he said, "and here's the rope ladder. 
Prettily contrived, but not perfectly. I give you, 
sir, a day to leave my dominions. If you are in 
Milan by this time to-morrow, you die." 

Poor Valentine was saddened to the core. "Un- 
less I look on Silvia in the day," he said, "there is no 
day for me to look upon." 

Before he went he took farewell of Proteus, who 
proved a hypocrite of the first order. "Hope is a 
lover's staff," said Valentine's betrayer; "walk hence 
with that." 

After leaving Milan, Valentine and his servant 
wandered into a forest near Mantua where the great 
poet Virgil lived. In the forest, however, the poets 
(if any) were brigands, who bade the travelers 
stand. They obeyed, and Valentine made so good 
an impression upon his captors that they offered 

264 





STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE -=- f- 





> > 



U 



him his life on condition that he became their cap- 
tain. 

"I accept," said Valentine, "provided you release 
my servant, and are not violent to women or the 
poor." 

The reply was worthy of Virgil, and Valentine 
became a brigand chief. 

We return now to Julia, who found Verona too 
dull to live in since Proteus had gone. She begged 
her maid Lucetta to devise a way by which she could 
see him. "Better wait for him to return," said Lu- 
cetta, and she talked so sensibly that Julia saw it was 
idle to hope that Lucetta would bear the blame of 
any rash and interesting adventure. Julia there- 
fore said that she intended to go to Milan and 
dressed like a page. 

"You must cut off your hair then," said Lucetta, 
who thought that at this announcement Julia would 
immediately abandon her scheme. 

"I shall knot it up," was the disappointing re- 
joinder. 

Lucetta then tried to make the scheme seem fool- 
ish to Julia, but Julia had made up her mind and 

265 



<^ 



$ 







was not to be put off by ridicule ; and when her toilet 
was completed, she looked as comely a page as one 
could wish to see. 

Julia assumed the male name Sebastian, and 
arrived in Milan in time to hear music being per- 
formed outside the Duke's palace. 

"They are serenading the Lady Silvia," said a 
man to her. 

Suddenly she heard a voice lifted in song, and she 
knew that voice. It was the voice of Proteus. But 
what was he singing? 

" Who is Silvia? what is she, 

That all our swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 

The heaven such grace did lend her 

That she might admired be." 

Julia tried not to hear the rest, but these two lines 
somehow thundered into her mind — 

" Then to Silvia let us sing ; 
She excels each mortal thing." 

Then Proteus thought Silvia excelled Julia; and, 
since he sang so beautifully for all the world to hear, 
it seemed that he was not only false to Julia, but 

266 






BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE -s- 





had forgotten her. Yet Julia still loved him. She 
even went to him, and asked to be his page, and 
Proteus engaged her. 

One day, he 
handed to her the 
ring which she 
had given him, t ■ 
and said, "Sebas- 
tian, take that to 
the Lady Silvia, r 
and sav that I »' 
should like the ;/^? 
picture of her she 
promised me." ^ 2 

Silvia had 
promised the pic- ^ 
ture, but she dis- 
liked Proteus. 
She was obliged ' 
to talk to him be- ° NE 0F THE 0uTLAWS - 

cause he was high in the favor of her father, who 
thought he pleaded with her on behalf of Sir Thurio. 
Silvia had learned from Valentine that Proteus was 

267 






> N 



pledged to a sweetheart in Verona; and when he 
said tender things to her, she felt that he was dis- 
loyal in friendship as well as love. 

Julia bore the ring to Silvia, but Silvia said, "I 
will not wrong the woman who gave it him by wear- 
ing it." 

"She thanks you," said Julia. 

"You know her, then?" said Silvia, and Julia 
spoke so tenderly of herself that Silvia wished that 
Sebastian would marry Julia. 

Silvia gave Julia her portrait for Proteus, who 
would have received it the worse for extra touches 
on the nose and eyes if Julia had not made up her 
mind that she was as pretty as Silvia. 

Soon there was an uproar in the palace. Silvia 
had fled. 

The Duke was certain that her intention was to 
join the exiled Valentine, and he was not wrong. 

Without delay he started in pursuit, with Sir 
Thurio, Proteus, and some servants. 

The members of the pursuing party got sepa- 
rated, and Proteus and Julia (in her page's dress) 
were by themselves when they saw Silvia, who had 




268 





been taken prisoner by outlaws and was now being 
led to their Captain. Proteus rescued her, and then 
said, "I have saved you from death; give me one 
kind look." 

"O misery, to be helped by you!" cried Silvia. 
"I would rather be a lion's breakfast." 

Julia was silent, but cheerful. Proteus was so 
much annoyed with Silvia that he threatened her, 
and seized her by the waist. 

"O heaven!" cried Silvia. 

At that instant there was a noise of crackling 
branches. Valentine came crashing through the 
Mantuan forest to the rescue of his beloved. Julia 
feared he would slay Proteus, and hurried to help 
her false lover. But he struck no blow, he only 
said, "Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust you 
more." 

Thereat Proteus felt his guilt, and fell on his 
knees, saying, "Forgive me! I grieve! I suffer!" 

"Then you are my friend once more," said the 
generous Valentine. "If Silvia, that is lost to me, 
will look on you with favor, I promise that I will 
stand aside and bless you both." 

269 






These words were terrible to Julia, and she 
swooned. Valentine revived her, and said, "What 
was the matter, boy?" 

"I remembered," fibbed Julia, "that I was 
charged to give a ring to the Lady Silvia, and that 
I did not." 

"Well, give it to me," said Proteus. 

She handed him a ring, but it was the ring that 
Proteus gave to Julia before he left Verona. 

Proteus looked at her hand, and crimsoned to the 
roots of his hair. 

"I changed my shape when you changed your 
mind," said she. 

"But I love you again," said he. 

Just then outlaws entered, bringing two prizes — 
the Duke and Sir Thurio. 

"Forbear!" cried Valentine, sternly. "The Duke 
is sacred." 

Sir Thurio exclaimed, "There's Silvia; she's 
mine!" 

"Touch her, and you die!" said Valentine. 

"I should be a fool to risk anything for her," said 
Sir Thurio. 







"Then you are base," said the Duke. "Valentine, 
you are a brave man. Your banishment is over. I 
recall you. You may marry Silvia. You deserve 
her." 

"I thank your Grace," said Valentine, deeply 
moved, "and yet must ask you one more boon." 

"I grant it," said the Duke. 

"Pardon these men, your Grace, and give them 
employment. They are better than their calling." 

"I pardon them and you," said the Duke. "Their 
work henceforth shall be for wages." 

"What think you of this page, your Grace?" 
asked Valentine, indicating Julia. 

The Duke glanced at her, and said, "I think the 
boy has grace in him." 

More grace than boy, say I," laughed Valentine, 
and the only punishment which Proteus had to bear 
for his treacheries against love and friendship was 
the recital in his presence of the adventures of 
Julia- Sebastian of Verona. 







ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 

IN the year thirteen hundred and something, the 
Countess of Rousillon was unhappy in her pal- 
ace near the Pyrenees. She had lost her husband, 
and the King of France had summoned her son 
Bertram to Paris, hundreds of miles away. 

Bertram was a pretty youth with curling hair, 

272 






finely arched eyebrows, and eyes as keen as a hawk's. 
He was as proud as ignorance could make him, and 
would lie with a face like truth itself to gain a selfish 
end. But a pretty youth is a pretty youth, and 
Helena was in love with him. 

Helena was the daughter of a great doctor who 
had died in the service of the Count of Rousillon. 
Her sole fortune consisted in a few of her fath- 
er's prescriptions. 

When Bertram had gone, Helena's forlorn look 
was noticed by the Countess, who told her that she 
was exactly the same to her as her own child. Tears 
then gathered in Helena's eyes, for she felt that 
the Countess made Bertram seem like a brother 
whom she could never marry. The Countess 
guessed her secret forthwith, and Helena confessed 
that Bertram was to her as the sun is to the day. 

She hoped, however, to win this sun by earning 
the gratitude of the King of France, who suffered 
from a lingering illness, which made him lame. 
The great doctors attached to the Court despaired 
of curing him, but Helena had confidence in a pre- 
scription which her father had used with success. 



273 






i^^^^ 






> > 



Taking an affectionate leave of the Countess, she 
went to Paris, and was allowed to see the King. 

He was very polite, but it was plain he thought 
her a quack. ."It would not become me," he said, 
"to apply to a simple maiden for the relief which 
all the learned doctors cannot give me." 

"Heaven uses weak instruments sometimes," said 
Helena, and she declared that she would forfeit her 
life if she failed to make him well. 

"And if you succeed?" questioned the King. 

"Then I will ask your Majesty to give me for a 
husband the man whom I choose!" 

So earnest a young lady could not be resisted for 
ever by a suffering king. Helena, therefore, be- 
came the King's doctor, and in two days the royal 
cripple could skip. 

He summoned his courtiers, and they made a glit- 
tering throng in the throne room of his palace. 
Well might the country girl have been dazzled, and 
seen a dozen husbands worth dreaming of among 
the handsome young noblemen before her. But her 
eyes only wandered till they found Bertram. Then 
she went up to him, and said, "I dare not say I take 

274 








you, but I am yours!" Raising her voice that the 
King might hear, she added, "This is the man!" 

"Bertram," said the King, "take her; she's your 
wife!" 

"My wife, my liege?" said Bertram. "I beg 
your Majesty to permit me to choose a wife." 

"Do you know, Bertram, what she has done for 
your King?" asked the monarch, who had treated 
Bertram like a son. 

"Yes, your Majesty," replied Bertram; "but why 
should I marry a girl who owes her breeding to my 
father's charity?" 

"You disdain her for lacking a title, but I can 
give her a title," said the King; and as he looked 
at the sulky youth a thought came to him, and he 
added, "Strange that you think so much of blood 
when you could not distinguish your own from a 
beggar's if you saw them mixed together in a bowl." 

"I cannot love her," asserted Bertram; and 
Helena said gently, "Urge him not, your Majesty. 
I am glad to have cured my King for my country's 
sake." 

"My honor requires that scornful boy's obe- 

275 






at^^^ 





dience," said the King. "Bertram, make up your 

mind to this. You marry this lady, of whom you 'o|j^| 

are so unworthy, or you learn how a king can hate. 



^1 Your 



answer 



^o 




Bertram bowed low and said, "Your Majesty has 




Helena and the King. 

ennobled the lady by your interest in her. I sub- 
mit." 

"Take her by the hand," said the King, "and tell 
her she is yours." ; 

Bertram obeyed, and with little delay he was mar- 
ried to Helena. 

276 







Fear of the King, however, could not make him 
a lover. Ridicule helped to sour him. A base soldier 
named Parolles told him to his face that now he had 
a "kicky-wicky" his business was not to fight but to 
stay at home. "Kicky-wicky" was only a silly epi- 
thet for a wife, but it made Bertram feel he could 
not bear having a wife, and that he must go to the 
war in Italy, though the King had forbidden him. 

Helena he ordered to take leave of the King and 
return to Rousillon, giving her letters for his mother 
and herself. He then rode off, bidding her a cold 
good-bye. 

She opened the letter addressed to herself, and 
read, "When you can get the ring from my finger 
you can call me husband, but against that 'when' I 
write 'never.' " 

Dry-eyed had Helena been when she entered the 
King's presence and said farewell, but he was un- 
easy on her account, and gave her a ring from his 
own finger, saying, "If you send this to me, I shall 
know you are in trouble, and help you." 

She did not show him Bertram's letter to his wife ; 
it would have made him wish to kill the truant 



277 







iti^^K 




V5S3 




> > 




Count; but she went back to Rousillon and handed 
her mother-in-law the second letter. It was short 
and bitter. "I have run away," it said. "If the 
world be broad enough, I will be always far away 
from her.' , 

"Cheer up," said the noble widow to the deserted 
wife. "I wash his name out of my blood, and you 
alone are my child." 

The Dowager Countess, however, was still mother 
enough to Bertram to lay the blame of his conduct 
on Parolles, whom she called "a very tainted fel- 
low." 

Helena did not stay long at Rousillon. She clad 
herself as a pilgrim, and, leaving a letter for her 
mother-in-law, secretly set out for Florence. 

On entering that city she inquired of a woman 
the way to the Pilgrims' House of Rest, but the 
woman begged "the holy pilgrim" to lodge with 
her. 

Helena found that her hostess was a widow, who 
had a beautiful daughter named Diana. 

When Diana heard that Helena came from 
France, she said, "A countryman of yours, Count 

278 




= = 






£3 




> > 



Rousillon, has done worthy service for Florence." 
But after a time, Diana had something to tell which 
was not at all worthy of Helena's husband. Ber- 
tram was making love to Diana. He did not 
hide the fact that he was married, but Diana heard 
from Parolles that his wife was not worth caring 
for. 

The widow was anxious for Diana's sake, and 
Helena decided to inform her that she was the 
Countess Rousillon. 

"He keeps asking Diana for a lock of her hair," 
said the widow. 

Helena smiled mournfully, for her hair was as 
fine as Diana's and of the same color. Then an 
idea struck her, and she said, "Take this purse of 
gold for yourself. I will give Diana three thou- 
sand crowns if she will help me to carry out this 
plan. Let her promise to give a lock of her hair to 
my husband if he will give her the ring which he 
wears on his finger. It is an ancestral ring. Five 
Counts of Rousillon have worn it, yet he will yield 
it up for a lock of your daughter's hair. Let your 
daughter insist that he shall cut the lock of hair 





m 



from her in a dark room, and agree in advance that 
she shall not speak a single word." 

The widow listened attentively, with the purse of 
gold in her lap. She said at last, "I consent, if 
Diana is willing." 

Diana was willing, and, strange to say, the pros- 
pect of cutting off a lock of hair from a silent girl 
in a dark room was so pleasing to Bertram that he 
handed Diana his ring, and was told when to follow 
her into the dark room. At the time appointed he 
came with a sharp knife, and felt a sweet face touch 
his as he cut off the lock of hair, and he left the 
room satisfied, like a man who is filled with renown, 
and on his finger was a ring which the girl in the 
dark room had given him. 

The war was nearly over, but one of its conclud- 
ing chapters taught Bertram that the soldier who 
had been impudent enough to call Helena his 
"kicky- wicky" was far less courageous than a wife. 
Parolles was such a boaster, and so fond of trim- 
mings to his clothes, that the French officers played 
him a trick to discover what he was made of. He 
had lost his drum, and had said that he would re- 

280 





♦m 



^^^^ti 





> > 



gain it unless he was killed in the attempt. His 
attempt was a very poor one, and he was inventing 
the story of a heroic failure, when he was sur- 
rounded and disarmed. 





Reading Bertram's Letter. 

"Portotartarossa," said a French lord. 
"What horrible lingo is this?" thought Parolles, 
who had been blindfolded. 

"He's calling for the tortures," said a French- I ^P 

281 




\5SJ 




man, affecting to act as interpreter, 
you say without 'em?" 

"As much," replied Parolles, "as I could possibly 
say if you pinched me like a pasty." He was as 
good as his word. He told them how many there 
were in each regiment of the Florentine army, and 
he refreshed them with spicy anecdotes of the offi- 
cers commanding it. 

Bertram was present, and heard a letter read, in 
which Parolles told Diana that he was a fool. 

"This is your devoted friend," said a French lord. 

"He is a cat to me now," said Bertram, who de- 
tested our hearthrug pets. 

Parolles was finally let go, but henceforth he felt 
like a sneak, and was not addicted to boasting. 

We now return to France with Helena, who had 
spread a report of her death, which was conveyed to 
the Dowager Countess at Rousillon by Lafeu, a 
lord who wished to marry his daughter Magdalen 
to Bertram. 

The King mourned for Helena, but he approved 
of the marriage proposed for Bertram, and paid a 
visit to Rousillon in order to see it accomplished. 

282 








u 



"His great offense is dead," he said. "Let Ber- 
tram approach me." 

Then Bertram, scarred in the cheek, knelt before 
his Sovereign, and said that if he had not loved 
Lafeu's daughter before he married Helena, he 
would have prized his wife, whom he now loved 
when it was too late. 

"Love that is late offends the Great Sender," 
said the King. "Forget sweet Helena, and give a 
ring to Magdalen." 

Bertram immediately gave a ring to Lafeu, who 
said indignantly, "It's Helena's!" 

"It's not!" said Bertram. 

Hereupon the King asked to look at the ring, 
and said, "This is the ring I gave to Helena, and 
bade her send to me if ever she needed help. So 
you had the cunning to get from her what could 
help her most." 

Bertram denied again that the ring was Helena's, 
but even his mother said it was. 

"You lie!" exclaimed the King. "Seize him, 
guards!" but even while they were seizing him, Ber- 
tram wondered how the ring, which he thought 

283 




^^^^§i 






Diana had given him, came to be so like Helena's. "]i5 

A gentleman now entered, craving permission to 
deliver a petition to the King. It was a petition 
signed Diana Capilet, and it begged that the King 




Helena and the Widow. 

would order Bertram to marry her whom he had 
deserted after winning her love. 

"I'd sooner buy a son-in-law at a fair than take 
Bertram now," said Lafeu. 

"Admit the petitioner," said the King. 

Bertram found himself confronted by Diana and 



284 





K§^» 




> N 



her mother. He denied that Diana had any claim 
on him, and spoke of her as though her life was 
spent in the gutter. But she asked him what sort 
lTJ °f gentlewoman it was to whom he gave, as to her 
he gave, the ring of his ancestors now missing from 
his finger? 

Bertram was ready to sink into the earth, but fate 
had one crowning generosity reserved for him. 
Helena entered. 

"Do I see reality?" asked the King. 

"O pardon! pardon!" cried Bertram. 

She held up his ancestral ring. "Now that I have 
this," said she, "will you love me, Bertram?" 

"To the end of my life," cried he. 

"My eyes smell onions," said Lafeu. Tears for 
Helena were twinkling in them. 

The King praised Diana when he was fully in- 
formed by that not very shy young lady of the 
meaning of her conduct. For Helena's sake she 
had wished to expose Bertram's meanness, not only 
to the King, but to himself. His pride was now 
in shreds, and it is believed that he made a husband 
of some sort after all. 

285 




^^^Sli 





PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY OF NAMES. 

[Key. — a, e, i, o, u — as in hat, bet, it, hot, hut; a, e, I, 5, u — as in 
ate, mete, mite, mote, mute; a — as in America, freeman, coward; e — 
as in her, fern; u — as in burn, furl.] 




Adriana (ad-ri-a'-na) 
AUgeon (e'-ge-on) 
AiJmilia (e-mil'-i-a) 
Alcibiades (al-si-bl'-a-dez) 
Aliena (a-li-e'-na) 
Angelo (an'-je-ld) 
Antioch (an'-ti-ok) 
Antiochus (an-tl'-o-kus) 
Antipholus (an-tif'-o-lus) 
Antonio (an-t5'-ni-6) 
Apemantus (ap-e-man'-tus) 
Apollo (a-pol'-d) 
Ariel (a'ri-el) 
Arragon (ar'-a-gon) 
Banquo (ban'-kwo) 
Baptista (bap-tis'-ta) 
Bassanio (bas-sa'-ni-6) 
Beatrice (be'st-tris) 
Bellario (bel-la'-ri-5) 
Bellarius (bel-la'-ri-us) 
Benedick (ben'-e-dik) 
Benvolio (ben-vo'-li-o) 
Bertram (ber'-tram) 
Bianca (be-an'-ka) 
Borachio (b5-rach'-i-o) 
Brabantio (bra-ban'ch5) 
Burgundy (bur'-gun-di) 
Caliban (kal'-i-ban) 
Camillo (ka-mil'-o) 



Capulet (kap'-u-let) 
Cassio (kas'-i-6) 
Celia (se'-li-a) 
Centaur (sen'-tawr) 
Cerimon (se'-ri-mon) 
Cesario (se-sa'-ri-d) 
Claudio (klaw'-di-o) 
Claudius (klaw'-di-us) 
Cordelia (kawr-de'-li-a) 
Cornwall (kawrn'-wawl) 
Cymbeline (sim'-be-len) 
Demetrius (de-me'-tri-us) 
Desdemona (des-de-mo'-na) 
Diana (di-an'-a) 
Dionyza (di-o-ni'-za) 
Donalbain (don'-al-ban) 
Doricles (dor'-i-klez) 
Dromio (dro'-mi-6) 
Duncan (dung'-kan) 
Emilia (e-mil'-i-a) 
Ephesus (ef'e-sus) 
Escalus (es'-ka-lus) 
Ferdinand (fer'-di-nand) 
Flaminius (fla-min'-i-us) 
Flavins (fla'-vi-us) 
Fleance (fle'-ans) 
Florizel (flor'-i-zel) 
Ganymede (gan'-i-med) 
Giulio (ju/-li-6) 



s 



\S3 




Goneril (gon'-e-ril) 
Gonzalo (gon-zah'-16) 
Helena (hel'-e-na) 
Helicanus (hel-i-ka'nus) 
Hercules (her'ku-lez) 
Hermia (her'mi-a) 
Hermione (her-ml'-o-ne) 
Horatio (hd-ra'-shi-o) 
Hortensio (hor-ten'-si-6) 
Iachimo (yak'-i-mo) 
I ago (e-ah'-g5) 
Illyria (il-lir'-i-a) 
Imogen (im'-o-jen) 
Jessica (jes'-i-ka) 
Juliet (ju'li-et) 
Laertes (la-er'-tez) 
La feu (lah-fu') 
Lear (ler) 

Leodovico (le-d-dd'-vi-ko) 
Leonato (le-6-na'-t5) 
Leontes (le-on'-tez) 
Luciana (lu-shi-a'na) 
Lucio (lu'-shi-6) 
Lucius (lu'-shi-us) 
Lucullus (lu-kul'-us) 
Lysander (ll-san'-der) 
Lysimachus (ll-sim'-a-kus) 
Macbeth (mak-beth') 
Magdalen (mag'-da-len) 
Malcolm (mal'-kum) 
Malvolio (mal-vo'li-5) 
Mantua (man'-tu-a) 
Mariana (mah-ri-a'-na) 
Menaphon (men'-a-fon) 
Mercutio (mer-ku'-shi-5) 
Messina (mes-se'-nah) 
Milan (mil'-an) 
Miranda (mi-ran'-da) 
Mitylene (mit-e-le'-ne) 
Montagu (mon'-ta-gu) 
Montano (mon-tah'-no) 
Oberon (ob'-er-on) 



Olivia (o-liv'-i-a) 

Ophelia (6-fel'-i-a or o-fel'-ya) 

Orlando (awr-lan'-do) 

Orsino (awr-se'-n5) 

Othello (o-thel'-5) 

Parolles (pa-rol'-ez) 

Paulina (paw-H'-na) 

Pentapolis ( pen-tap '-o-lis) 

Perdita (per'-di-ta) 

Pericles (per'-i-klez) 

Petruchio (pe-tru'-chi-o) 

Phcenix ( f e'-niks ) 

Pisanio (pe-sah'-ni-5) 

Polixines (p5-liks'-e-nez) 

Polonius (po-ld'-ni-us) 

Portia (por'-shi-a) 

Proteus (pro'-te-us or pro'-tiis) 

Regan (re'-gan) 

Roderigo (rd-der'-i-g5) 

Romano (ro-mah'-n5) 

Romeo (ro'-me-o) 

Rosalind (roz'-a-lind) 

Rosaline (roz'-a-lin) 

Rousillon (rii-se-lyawng') 

Sebastian (se-bas'-ti-an) 

Sempronius (sem-prd'-ni-us) 

Simonides (si-mon'-i-dez) 

Solinus (s5-H'-nus) 

Sycorax (si'-ko-raks) 

Syracuse (sir-a-kus) 

Thaisa (tha-is'-a) 

Thaliard (tha'-li-ard) 

Thurio (thu'-ri-5) 

Timon (ti'-mon) 

Titania (tl-tan'-i-a) 

Tybalt (tib'-alt) 

Ursula (iir'-su-la) 

Venetian (ve-ne'-shan) 

Venice (ven'-is) 

Ventidius (ven-tid'-i-us) 

Verona (va-r5'-na) 

Vicentio (ve-sen'-shi-o) 




287 





QUOTATIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE 



ACTION. 



Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant 
More learned than their ears. 

Coriolanus — III. 2. 





ADVERSITY. 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 

As You Like It — II. 1 

That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, 

And follows but for form, 
Will pack, when it begins to rain, 

And leave thee in the storm. 

King Lear — II. 4 

Ah ! when the means are gone, that buy this praise, 
The breath is gone whereof this praise is made : 
Feast won — fast lost ; one cloud of winter showers, 
These flies are couched. 

Timon of Athens — II. 

288 



K^^^ 






ADVICE TO A SON LEAVING HOME. 

Give thy thoughts no tongue, 
Nor any unproportioned thought his act 
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried 
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel ; 
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware 
Of entrance to a quarrel : but, being in, 
Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. 
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice : 
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. 
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
But not expressed in fancy : rich, not gaudy : 
For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; 
And they in France, of the best rank and station, 
Are most select and generous, chief in that. 
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be: 
For loan oft loses both itself and friend ; 
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 
This above all. — To thine ownself be true ; 
And it must follow, as the night the day, 
Thou canst not then be false to any man. 

Hamlet — I. 3 



AGE. 

My May of life 
Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf : 
And that which should accompany old age, 
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, 

289 





Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath, 
Which the poor heart would feign deny, but dare not. 

Macbeth — V. 3. 




AMBITION. 

Dreams, indeed, are ambition ; for the very substance of 
the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I 
hold ambition of so airy and light a quality, that it is but 
a shadow's shadow. Hamlet — II. 2. 

I charge thee fling away ambition ; 
By that sin fell the angels, how can man then, 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? 
Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not! 
Let all the ends, thou aim'st at, be thy country's, 
Thy God's, and truth's. 

King Henry VIIL—llI. 2. 

ANGER. 

Anger is like 
A full-hot horse, who being allowed his way, 
Self -mettle tires him. 

King Henry VIII. — I. 1. 

ARROGANCE. 

There are a sort, of men, whose visages 

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, 

And do a wiiiiul stillness entertain, 

290 





With purpose to be dressed in an opinion 

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, 

As who should say, " I am Sir Oracle, 

And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark ! " 

O ! my Antonio, I do know of these 

That therefore are reputed wise 

For saying nothing, when, I am sure, 

If they should speak, would almost dam those ears, 

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. 

The Merchant of Venice — I. 1. 

AUTHORITY. 

Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? 
And the creature run from the cur? 

There thou might'st behold the great image of authority : 
a dog's obeyed in office. 

King Lear — IV. 6. 

Could great men thunder 

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, 

For every pelting, petty officer 

Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but thunder — 

Merciful heaven ! 

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 

Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, 

Than the soft myrtle ! — O, but man, proud man ! 

Drest in a little brief authority — 

Most ignorant of what he's most assured, 

His glassy essence, — like an angry ape, 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, 

As make the angels weep. 

Measure for Measure — II. 2. 

291 







s 



The hand, that hath made you fair, hath made you good : 
the goodness, that is cheap in beauty, makes beauty brief in 
goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, 
should keep the body of it ever fair. 

Measure for Measure — III. 1. 

BLESSINGS UNDERVALUED. 

It so falls out 
That what we have we prize not to the worth, 
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, 
Why, then we rack the value ; then we find 
The virtue, that possession Would not show us 
Whiles it was ours. 

Much Ado About Nothing — IV. 1. 

BRAGGARTS. 

It will come to pass, 
That every braggart shall be found an ass. 

All's Well that Ends Well — IV. 3. 

They that have the voice of lions, and the act of hares, are 
they not monsters? 

Troilus and Cressida — III. 2. 



CALUMNY. 

Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not 
escape calumny. 



Hamlet — III. 1. 



292 




^^§» 





No might nor greatness in mortality 
Can censure 'scape ; back-wounding calumny 
The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong, 
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? 

Measure for Measure — III. 2. 



CEREMONY. 

Ceremony 

Was but devised at first, to set a gloss 

On faint deeds, hollow welcomes. 

Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown ; 

But where there is true friendship, there needs none. 

Timon of Athens — I. 2. 




COMFORT. 




Men 



Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief 
Which they themselves not feel ; but tasting it, 
Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, 
Charm ache with air, and agony with words : 
No, no ; 'tis all men's office to speak patience 
To those that wring under the load of sorrow ; 
But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency, 
To be so moral, when he shall endure 
The like himself. 

Much Ado About Nothing — 




V. 1, 



Well, every one can master a grief, but he that has it. 

Idem — II. 



293 




s 




When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. 
So doth the greater glory dim the less ; 
A substitute shines brightly, as a king, 
Until a king be by ; and then his state 
Empties itself, as does an inland brook 
Into the main of waters. 

Merchant of Venice — V. 

CONSCIENCE. 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action. 

Hamlet 



III 



CONTENT. 



My crown is in my heart, not on my head ; 
Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, 
Nor to be seen ; my crown is called " content " ; 
A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy. 

King Henry VI., Part 3d — .III. 1 

CONTENTION. 

How, in one house. 
Should many people, under two commands, 
Hold amity? 

Kmg Lear — II. 4 

294 







When two authorities are set up, 
Neither supreme, how soon confusion 
May enter twixt the gap of both, and take 
The one by the other. 

Coriolanus — III. 1. 

CONTENTMENT. 

'Tis better to be lowly born, 
And range with humble livers in content, 
Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, 
And wear a golden sorrow. 

King Henry VIII. — II. 3. 

COWARDS. 

Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
The valiant never taste of death but once. 

Julius Ccesar — II. £. 

CUSTOM. 

That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat 
Of habit's devil, is angel yet in this : 
That to the use of actions- fair and good 
He likewise gives a frock, or livery, 
That aptly is put on : Refrain to-night : 
And that shall lend a kind of easiness 
To the next abstinence: the next more easy: 
For use almost can change the stamp of nature, 
And either curb the devil, or throw him out 
With wondrous potency. 

Hamlet — III. 4. 

295 




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\ > 




A custom 
More honored in the breach, then the observance. 

Idem — I. 4. 

DEATH. 

Kings, and mightiest potentates, must die; 
For that's the end of human misery. 

King Henry VI., Part 1st — III. %. 

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, 

It seems to me most strange that men should fear ; 

Seeing that death, a necessary end, 

Will come, when it will come. 

Julius Ccesar — II. 2. 

The dread of something after death, 
Makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others we know not of. 

Hamlet — 111. 1. 

The sense of death is most in apprehension. 

Measure for Measure — III. 1. 

By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death 
Will seize the doctor too. 

Cymbeline — V. 5. 

DECEPTION. 

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 
An evil soul, producing holy witness, 
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek ; 

296 






A goodly apple rotten at the heart ; 

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath ! 

Merchant of Venice — I. 3. 



DEEDS. 

Foul deeds will rise, 
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes. 

Hamlet — I. 2. 

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, 
Makes deeds ill done ! 

King John — IV. 2. 

DELAY. 

That we would do, 
We should do when we would ; for this would changes, 
And hath abatements and delays as many, 
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents ; 
And then this should is like a spendthrift sigh, 
That hurts by easing. 

Hamlet — IV. 7. 



DELUSION. 

For love of grace 
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul ; 
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place ; 
Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, 
Infects unseen. 

Hamlet — III. 4 






Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, 
Not to outsport discretion. 

Othello — II. S. 



DOUBTS AND FEARS. 



I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound in 
To saucy doubts and fears. 

Macbeth — III. 4. 





DRUNKENNESS. 

Boundless intemperance. 
In nature is a tyranny ; it hath been 
Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne, 
And fall of many kings. 

Measure for Measure — I. 3 

DUTY OWING TO OURSELVES AND OTHERS. 

Love all, trust a few, 
Do wrong to none; be able for thine enemy 
Rather in power, than use; and keep thy friend 
Under thy own life's key ; be checked for silence, 
But never taxed for speech. 

All's Well that Ends Well —XI 

EQUIVOCATION. 

But yet, — 
I do not like but yet, it does allay 
The good precedence ; f ye upon but yet : 

298 






> > 



But yet is as a gailer to bring forth 
Some monstrous malefactor. 

Antony and Cleopatra 



II. 5. 



EXCESS. 



A surfeit of the sweetest things 

The deepest loathing to the stomach brings. 

Midsummer Night's Dream — II. 3. 

Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is 
a devil. 

Othello — II. 3. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, 
Three things that women hold in hate. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona — III. 2. 

FEAR. 

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds 
Where it should guard. 

King Henry VL, Part %d — V. 2. 

Fear, and be slain ; no worse can come, to fight : 
And fight and die, is death destroying death; 
Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath. 

King Richard II. — III. %, 

FEASTS. 

Small cheer, and great welcome, makes a merry feast. 

Comedy of Errors — III. 1. 

299 





it^^K 



Ingratitude! Thou marble-hearted fiend, 

More hideous, when thou showest thee in a child, 

Than the sea-monster. 

King Lear — I. 4, 

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
To have a thankless child 

Idem — I. 4. 

FORETHOUGHT. 

Determine on some course, 
More than a wild exposure to each cause 
That starts i' the way before thee. 

Coriolanus — IV. 1. 




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FORTITUDE. 



Yield not thy neck 
To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind 
Still ride in triumph over all mischance. 

King Henry VI. , Part 3d — III. 3. 



FORTUNE. 



When fortune means to men most good, 
She looks upon them with a threatening eye. 

King John — III. 4. 



GREATNESS. 



Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth 

300 



The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is ripening, — nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. 

King Henri/ VIII.— III. 2. 

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some 
have greatness thrust upon them. 

Twelfth Night — II. 5. 




HAPPINESS. 




> > 



O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through 
another man's eyes. 

As You Like It — Y. 2. 



HONESTY. 

An honest man is able to speak for himself, when a knave 
is not. 

King Henry VI., Part M — X. 1. 

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked 
out of ten thousand. 

Hamlet — 11. %. 

HYPOCRISY. 

Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. 

Love's Labor Lost — IV. 3. 

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. 

Hamlet — I. 5. 



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u 



The trust I have is in mine innocence, 
And therefore am I bold and resolute. 

Troilus and Cressida — IV. 4. 

INSINUATIONS. 

The shrug, the hum, or ha; these petty brands, 
That calumny doth use; — 

For calumny will sear 
Virtue itself : — these shrugs, these hums, and ha's, 
When you have said, she's goodly, come between, 
Ere you can say she's honest. 

Winter's Tale — II. 1. 

JEALOUSY. 

Trifles, light as air, 
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong 
As proofs of holy writ. 

Othello — III. 3. 

O beware of jealousy: 
It is the green-eyed monster, which does mock 
The meat it feeds on. 



Idem 



JESTS. 



A jest's prosperity lies in the ear of him that hears it. 

Love's Labor Lost — V. 2. 

He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. 

Romeo and Juliet — II. 9>. 

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mm^gm 





Heaven is above all ; there sits a Judge, 
That no king can corrupt. 

King Henry VIII.- 



III. 1, 



LIFE. 



Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more: it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing. 

Macbeth — V. 5. 





We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

The Tempest — IV. 1. 

LOVE. 

A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon, 
Than love that would seem hid : love's night is noon. 

Twelfth Night — III. 2. 

Sweet love, changing his property, 
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. 

King Richard II. — III. 2. 



When love begins to sicken and decay, 
It useth an enforced ceremony. 

Julius Ccesar 



II. 2. 



303 




The course of true-love never did run smooth. 

Midsummer Night's Dream — LI, 

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. 

Idem. 

She never told her love, — 
But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought, 
And, with a green and yellow melancholy, 
She sat like Patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? 

Twelfth Night — II. 4. 





But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 
The pretty follies that themselves commit. 

The Merchant of Venice — II. 6. 

MAN. 

What a piece of work is man ! How noble in reason ! 
How infinite in faculties ! in form, and moving, how express 
and admirable ! in action, how like an angel ! in apprehen- 
sion, how like a god ! the beauty of the world ! the paragon 
of animals ! 

Hamlet — II. 2. 

MERCY. 

The quality of mercy is not strained: 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, 
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; 
It blesses him that gives, and him that takes : 

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'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown : 

His scepter shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 

But mercy is above this sceptered sway; 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 

It is an attribute to God himself ; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 

When mercy seasons justice. 

Consider this, — 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 

Merchant of Venice — IV 



MERIT. 

Who shall go about 
To cozen fortune, and be honorable 
Without the stamp of merit ! Let none presume 
To wear an undeserved dignity. 

Merchant of Venice — II. 9 



MODESTY. 

It is the witness still of excellency, 

To put a strange face on his own perfection. 

Much Ado About Nothing — II. 3 



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XI 



Brave conquerors ! for so you are, 
That war against your own affections, 
And the huge army of the world's desires. 
Love's Labor's Lost 



I. 1. 



MURDER. 




The great King of kings 
Hath in the table of his law commanded, 
That thou shalt do no murder. 
Take heed ; for he holds vengeance in his hand, 
To hurl upon their heads that break his law. 

King Richard III. — I. 4. 

Blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, 

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth. 

King Richard II. — I. 1. 

MUSIC. 

The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus : 

Let no such man be trusted. 

Merchant of Venice 

NAMES. 



V. 



What's in a name? that, which we call a rose, 
By any other name would smell as sweet. 

Romeo and Juliet — II. 2 

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Good name, in man, and woman, 

Is the immediate jewel of their souls: 

Who steals my purse steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing. 

'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: 

But he, that filches from me my good name, 

Robs me of that, which not enriches him, 

And makes me poor indeed. 

Othello — III. 3. 

NATURE. 

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. 

Troilus and Cressida — III. 3. 

NEWS, GOOD AND BAD. 

Though it be honest, it is never good 
To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message 
An host of tongues ; but let ill tidings tell 
Themselves, when they be felt. 

Antony and Cleopatra — II. 5. 

OFFICE. 

'Tis the curse of service; 
Preferment goes by letter, and affection, 
Not by the old gradation, where each second 
Stood heir to the first. 

Othello — I. 1. 

OPPORTUNITY. 

Who seeks, and will not take when offered, 
Shall never find it more. 

Antony and Cleopatra — II. 7, 

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s 




There is a tide in the affairs of men, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 

Omitted, all the voyage of their life 

Is bound in shallows, and in miseries: 

And we must take the current when it serves, 

Or lose our ventures. 

Julius Ccesar — IV. 3. 

OPPRESSION. 

Press not a falling man too far ; 'tis virtue : 
His faults lie open to the laws ; let them, 
Not you, correct them. 

King Henry VIII.— III. 0. 

PAST AND FUTURE. 

O thoughts of men accurst ! 
Past, and to come, seem best ; things present, worst. 

King Henry IV., Part U — I. 3. 

PATIENCE. 

How poor are they, that have not patience ! — 
What wound did ever heal, but by degrees ? 

Othello — II. 8. 

PEACE. 

A peace is of the nature of a conquest ; 
For then both parties nobly are subdued, 
And neither party loser. 

King Henry IV., Part 2d — TV. 2. 



308 







I will use the olive with my sword : 

Make war breed peace ; make peace stint war ; make each 

Prescribe to other, as each other's leech. 

Timon of Athens — V. 5. 



I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 
A still and quiet conscience. 

King Henry VIII.- 



-III. 0. 



PENITENCE. 



Who by repentance is not satisfied, 

Is nor of heaven, nor earth ; for these are pleased ; 

By penitence the Eternal's wrath appeased. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona — V. 4. 

PLAYERS. 

All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts. 

As Yow Like It — II. 7. 

There be players, that I have seen play, — and heard 
others praise, and that highly „ — not to speak it profanely, 
that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of 
Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, 
that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made 
men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so 
abominably. 

Hamlet — 111. 2. 



309 



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POMP. 




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Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? 
And, live we how we can, yet die we must. 

King Henry V. Part 3d — V. 2. 



PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. 

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, 
chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' 
palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instruc- 
tions : I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, 
than be one of twenty to follow mine own teaching. The 
brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper 
leaps o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness, the youth, 
to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple. 

The Merchant of Venice — I. 2. 

PRINCES AND TITLES. 

Princes have but their titles for their glories, 

An outward honor for an inward toil; 

And, for unfelt imaginations, 

They often feel a world of restless cares : 

So that, between their titles, and low name, 

There's nothing differs but the outward fame. 

King Richard III. — I. 4. 

QUARRELS. 

In a false quarrel these is no true valor. 

Much Ado About Nothing — V. 1. 




Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; 
And he but naked, though locked up in steel, 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 

King Henry VI., Part 2d — III. 2. 



RAGE. 



Men in rage strike those that wish them best. 

Othello — II. 3. 



REPENTANCE. 



Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, 
Which after-hours give leisure to repent. 

King Richard III. — IV. 4. 




REPUTATION. 

The purest treasure mortal times afford, 
Is — spotless reputation ; that away, 
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. 
A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest 
Is — a bold spirit in a loyal breast. 

King Richard II. — I. 1 

RETRIBUTION. 

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
Make instruments to scourge us. 

King Lear 



V. 3. 



If these men have defeated the law, and outrun native 
punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no 
wings to fly from God. 

King Henry V. — IV. 1. 






* > 



oble scar, is a good livery of honor. 
All's Well that Ends Well — IV. 5. 

To such as boasting show their scars, 
A mock is due. 

Troilus and Cressida — IV. 5. 

SELF-CONQUEST. 

Better conquest never can'st thou make, 
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts 
Against, those giddy loose suggestions. , 

King John — III. 1. 

SELF-EXERTION. 

Men at some time are masters of their fates ; 

The fault is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves. 

Julius Caesar — I. 2. 

SELF-RELIANCE. 

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, 
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky 
Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull 
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull. 
AIVs Well that Ends Well - 

SILENCE. 

Out of this silence, yet I picked a welcome ; 
And in the modesty of fearful duty 

312 



I. 1 




^^^» 






I read as much, as from the rattling tongue 
Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 

Midsummer Night's Dream — V. 1. 



The silence often of pure innocence 
Persua'des, when speaking fails. 

Winter's Tale 



II. 2. 



Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little 
happy, if I could say how much. 

Much Ado About Nothing — II. 1. 



SLANDER. 

Slander, 
Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue 
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath 
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
All corners of the world ; kings, queens, and states, 
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, 
This viperous slander enters. 

Cymbeline — III. 4. 

SLEEP. 

The innocent sleep ; 
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, 
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
Chief nourisher in life's feast. 

Macbeth— II. 2. 






SUICIDE. 



Against, self -slaughter 
There is a prohibition so divine, 
That cravens my weak hand. 

Cymbeline 



III. 4. 




TEMPERANCE. 

Though I look old, yet am I strong and lusty : 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
The means of weakness and debility : 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly. 

As You Like It — 




II. 3 



THEORY AND PRACTICE. 

There was never yet philosopher, 
That could endure the tooth-ache patiently ; 
However, they have writ the style of the gods, 
And made a pish at chance and sufferance. 

Much Ado About Nothing — V. 

TREACHERY. 

Though those, that are betrayed, 
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor 
Stands in worse case of woe. 

Cymbeline — III. 4 



314 





VALOR. 




The better part of valor is — discretion. 
King Henry IV., Part 1st- 



V. 4. 



When Valor preys on reason, 
It eats the sword it fights with. 

Antony and Cleopatra — III. 2. 

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin 
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, 
When he might spurn him with his foot away? 

King Henry VI., Part 1st — I. 4. 

WAR. 

Take care 
How you awake the sleeping sword of war: 
We charge you in the name of God, take heed. 
King Henry IV., Part 1st — I. 

WELCOME. 

Welcome ever smiles, 
And farewell goes out sighing. 

Troilus and Cressida — III. S 

WINE. 



Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used. 

Othello — II. 3. 

O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to 
be known by, let us call thee — devil ! . . . O, that 

315 





K^^i 




s 



men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away 
their brains! that we should with joy, revel, pleasure, and 
applause, transform ourselves into beasts ! 

Othello — II. 3. 



WOMAN. 



A woman impudent and mannish grown 
Is not more loathed than an effeminate man. 

Troilus and Cressida — III. 




WORDS. 



Words without thoughts never to heaven go. 

Hamlet — III. 




Few words shall fit the trespass best, 

Where no excuse can give the fault amending. 

Troilus and Cressida — III. 



WORLDLY CARE. 



You have too much respect upon the world: 
They lose it, that do buy it with much care. 

Merchant of Venice — I. 1 



WORLDLY HONORS. 

Not a man, for being simply man, 
Hath any honor; but honor for those honors 
That are without him, as place, riches, favor, 
Prizes of accident as oft as merit ; 

316 




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y 



Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, 
The love that leaned on them, as slippery too, 
Do one pluck down another, and together 
Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me. 

Troilus and Cressida — III. 3. 




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